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OLD  VALENTINES 


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SHE    WAS   YOUR   MAMMA,   TOO,    WAS  N*T    SHE? 


OLD  VALENTINES 

A  LOVE  STORY 

BY 

MUNSON  HAVENS 

WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

(£be  fttoertfbe  preitf  Cambribge 

1914 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,  BY  MUNSON  HAVENS 
ALL   RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  February  11)14 


TO  MY  WIFE 


2136131 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  SHE  WAS  YOUR  MAMMA,  TOO,  WAS  N'T 
SHE?"     (page  16)       .      .        Frontispiece 

"MAY  I  CALL  YOU  PHYLLIS?"       .      .     54 

"ARE  YOU  CERTAIN  YOU  CAN  SPARE  SO 
LARGE  A  SUM?" 142 

SIR  PETER   GAVE   IT   INTO  THE  TINY 
FINGERS    .      .      .      .      .      .  .  224 

From  drawings  by  Griswold  Tyng 


OLD  VALENTINES 


You  might  enter  this  story  by  the^stage 
door.  You  remember  beautiful  Valentine 
Germain — the  actress?  She  married  Rob- 
ert Oglebay,  the  painter,  brother  of  Sir 
Peter  Oglebay,  the  great  engineer.  Their 
baby  Phyllis  — 

But,  after  all,  the  main  entrance  is  more 
dignified. 

Sir  Peter  Oglebay's  passion  is  for  Con- 
struction: to  watch  massive  machinery 
slowly  hoisting  materials  more  massive 
into  positions  of  incredible  height  with 
calculated  accuracy.  Wherever  construc- 
tion is  in  progress  you  are  likely  to  see  him, 
standing  at  a  little  distance,  holding  his 
silk  hat  on  his_white  head  with  one  hand 
i 


OLD  VALENTINES 

as  he  looks  upward,  and  leaning,  a  little 
heavily,  on  his  stick  with  the  other.  And 
whenever  or  wherever  you  see  him,  you 
will  see  an  English  gentleman. 

His  portrait,  in  the  lobby  of  the  Engineer- 
ing Society,  is  by  Sargent.  His  erect  bear- 
ing, white  mustache,  and  something  about 
the  cut  of  his  clothes  suggest  the  soldier. 
But  he  is  one  of  the  great  engineers;  his 
father  and  grandfather  were  engineers. 
You  observe  the  red  ribbon  in  his  lapel; 
France  honors  him. 

Sir  Peter's  big  house  is  in  Armytage 
Street,  near  the  park.  You  may  remember 
the  house  by  its  walled  garden  and  the  im- 
posing wrought-iron  grille  through  which 
one  has  access  to  the  flagged  walk,  the  wide 
steps,  and  the  great  doorway. 

In  his  house,  the  library  defines  his  chief 
interest  in  life.  The  shelves  are  filled  with 
somber  sets  of  the  "Transactions"  and 
2 


OLD  VALENTINES 

" Proceedings"  of  several  learned  societies. 
Sir  Peter  is  himself  a  Fellow  of  these  socie- 
ties. Mr.  Rowlandson,  his  bookseller,  has 
a  standing  advertisement  in  "  The  Athe- 
naeum" for  certain  missing  volumes.  One 
in  particular,  the  "Proceedings  of  the  Brit- 
ish Engineering  Society  for  the  year  1848," 
he  would  tell  you,  was  the  very  devil  to 
find;  it  seems  there  was  a  fire  at  the  print- 
er's. Sir  Peter's  monograph  on  the  "Egyp- 
tian Pyramids  Considered  in  their  Relation 
to  Modern  Engineering  "  was  dedicated  to 
this  society.  He  presided  over  its  grave  de- 
liberations for  several  years.  "With  dig- 
nity and  impartiality,"  said  his  successor, 
when  Sir  Peter  surrendered  the  gavel. 

He  serves  on  boards  of  directors.  His 
name  is  seen  on  subscription  lists  headed 
by  the  Right  People.  Late  afternoon  should 
find  him  at  the  Carlton  Club. 

Many  years  ago,  Sir  Peter  brought  to- 
3 


OLD  VALENTINES 

gether  a  number  of  fine  pictures.  They  hang 
in  the  drawing-room,  but  the  collection  is 
not  a  notable  one  in  these  days.  Each  year, 
however,  the  Oglebay  Prize  speeds  some 
talented  English  lad  to  Paris.  But  that  en- 
dowment was  his  brother  Robert's  sugges- 
tion. Sir  Peter's  calls  at  the  Christie  Gal- 
leries ceased  when  Robert  married  beautiful 
Valentine  Germain,  the  actress.  Perhaps 
half  of  the  cruel  things  Sir  Peter  said  of  her 
were  true.  But  the  quarrel  was  irreparable; 
the  brothers  never  met  afterward. 

Robert  Oglebay  was  a  painter  of  distinc- 
tion, if  not  of  genius.  His  few  finished  pic- 
tures enriched  the  world.  His  impulses 
were  noble,  but  they  were  impulses  only; 
the  will  to  complete  the  undertaken  task 
was  lacking.  For  patient  work  he  substi- 
tuted high  talk  of  Art  in  the  studios  of  his 
friends.  The  gay  little  suppers  in  their  own 
rooms  were  famous;  nine  at  table,  mostly 
4 


OLD  VALENTINES 

men,  entranced  by  Valentine's  beauty  and 
her  wit.  Charming  were  their  afternoons 
among  the  curio  shops,  and  their  return, 
laden  with'  loot  too  precious  to  wait  over 
night  for  delivery.  Glorious  were  their 
holidays  in  Paris  and  Vienna;  wonderful 
nights  in  Venice!  Always  together!  To- 
gether their  sudden  migration  to  Egypt, 
whence  he  returned  with  a  portfolio  of 
exciting  promise.  Alas,  the  slender  fulfil- 
ment !  for  then  was  the  time  for  work,  — 
the  sobering  thought  of  Baby  Phyllis. 

But  to  Valentine  and  Robert  Oglebay, 
Baby  Phyllis  soon  meant  a  new  frolic. 
Nurse  Farquharson's  were  the  competent 
hands.  Their  life  went  on  unchanged. 

At  five,  Baby  Phyllis,  in  her  white  nightie, 
her  blue  eyes  shining,  and  her  curls  crowned 
with  roses,  danced  among  the  wine-glasses 
at  her  mother's  birthday  party,  and  en- 
raptured the  guests  by  singing,  in  various 
5 


OLD  VALENTINES 

keys,  the  song  with  which  beautiful  Valen- 
tine herself  had  captivated  London,  —  "  If  I 
could  wear  trousers,  I  know  what  I  should 
do."  If  you  knew  your  way  about  town  in 
the  early  eighties,  you  may  remember  the 
song.  The  encore  was  uproarious:  three 
times  Baby  Phyllis  had  to  lift  her  little 
leg  and  strike  the  match  on  her  nightie. 
They  drank  her  health  standing,  as  she 
disappeared,  smiling  at  them  over  Nurse 
Farquharson's  shoulder. 

Upstairs,  having  cuddled  Phyllis  in  bed, 
Valentine  caught  the  expression  on  the 
nurse's  face.  She  put  her  arms  around 
Farquharson  appealingly. 

"Don't  be  cross  with  me  on  my  birth- 
day," she  pleaded. 

Farquharson  patted  the  pretty  upraised 
hands,  glittering  with  diamonds. 

"You  must  n't  look  cross  at  my  mamma, 
Farkson,"  cooed  Baby  Phyllis. 
6 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Careless,  happy  days  and  sparkling 
nights !  Robert  and  Valentine  were  always 
together,  their  honeymoon  endless;  in 
Paris,  in  Buda-Pesth,  in  Rome,  in  Con- 
stantinople, in  Holland.  You  should  have 
seen  Valentine  in  the  Dutch  costume  she 
brought  home.  Each  of  the  inseparable 
trio  of  artists,  Mr.  Singleton,  Mr.  Leonard, 
and  Mr.  Knowles,  painted  her  portrait,  and 
made  love  to  her,  and  was  laughed  at  and 
scolded.  It  is  little  enough  to  say  of  her 
that  she  idolized  Robert. 

When  they  returned  from  their  first  trip 
to  Norway,  in  1897,  Robert  Oglebay,  now 
forty  and  growing  stout,  told  his  friends  he 
had  found  what  he  was  looking  for  at  last. 
The  strong,  deep  sentiment  of  the  North  had 
clutched  at  him  and  held  him  fast.  And  in- 
deed those  shimmering,  moonlit  studies  of 
the  little  fishing  village,  where  they  spent 
that  summer  and  autumn,  are  his  best. 
7 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Early  in  the  following  summer  they 
flitted  northward  again,  with  joyful  eager- 
ness. They  took  nine-year-old  Phyllis 
with  them. 

While  her  father  painted,  and  her  mother 
read,  Phyllis  explored  crannies  in  which 
the  receding  tide  had  left  tiny,  helpless 
creatures  which  she  examined  curiously, 
and  then  carried  tenderly  to  the  water, 
lest  they  perish  before  the  friendly  waves 
came  again  to  cover  them. 

Their  boatman  sang  songs  to  her, — 
strange  songs  that  thrilled  her,  though  she 
did  not  understand  the  words. 

At  night,  in  the  best  room  of  the  little 
inn,  by  a  bright  fire,  her  father  told  tales 
of  the  vikings;  of  their  high-prowed  ships, 
and  the  long-haired  sailors,  with  fierce  eyes; 
of  their  adventurous  voyages  over  unknown 
seas.  The  stories  ended  when  the  golden 
head  drooped,  drowsily. 
8 


OLD   VALENTINES 

The  portfolio  of  sketches  grew  steadily 
during  the  weeks  that  followed. 

"Your  best  work,  Robert,"  said  Valen- 
tine. 

"  I  have  found  what  I  have  been  seeking," 
was  his  answer. 

They  were  happy  days.  Robert  painted, 
early  and  late,  in  all  weathers.  Valentine's 
joy  was  in  him.  Phyllis  found  hers  in  a 
closer  companionship  with  them  than  she 
had  ever  known. 

Remembering  their  eager  joy,  how  tragic 
the  end !  Drowned,  under  the  sail  of  an  over- 
turned boat,  —  together. 

Their  little  Phyllis,  saved  by  the  boat- 
man, recovered  from  the  shock  of  icy  water 
and  horrible  fright  before  her  clothing  was 
dry.  She  was  spared  immediate  knowledge 
of  her  loss.  The  rough,  weatherworn  faces 
she  saw  in  the  firelight  of  the  fisherman's 
cottage,  to  which  she  had  been  carried,  were 
9 


OLD   VALENTINES 

kindly  and  compassionate.  The  gloom  of 
early  evening,  the  glow  of  the  firelight,  the 
smell  of  the  sea,  the  full-rigged  ship  on  a 
rude  wall-bracket,  and  the  moaning  wind 
outside  were  memories  of  after  years.  At 
the  moment,  wrapped  in  a  blanket,  Phyllis 
was  conscious  only  of  security  and  warmth. 
She  smiled  up  at  the  big  fisherman  who  had 
rescued  her,  and  made  friendly  advances  to 
the  cluster  of  ragged  little  ones  who  gathered 
around  her,  with  scared  faces  and  brown, 
bare  legs  and  feet.  When  the  fisherman's 
wife  tucked  her 'into  a  warm  bed,  she  in- 
quired sleepily  for  her  mamma.  A  reassur- 
ing caress  was  the  response:  the  language 
of  motherhood  is  universal,  and  requires  no 
words. 

The  patrol  of  the  rocky  inlet  ended  at 

dawn.  When  the  burdened  groups  of  booted 

men  tramped  past  the  cottage  on  their 

way  to  the  inn,  the  fisherman's  wife,  peer- 

10 


OLD   VALENTINES 

ing  through  the  window  in  the  gray  morn- 
ing light,  muttered  to  herself  that  both 
had  been  found. 

Some  hours  afterward  came  the  inn- 
keeper and  the  postmaster,  the  one  proud 
of  his  English,  the  other  of  his  responsibili- 
ties as  first  citizen  of  the  village.  A  large- 
eyed,  terror-stricken  Phyllis  learned  of  her 
loneliness  and  sobbed  on  the  good  woman's 
broad  bosom.  The  innkeeper  and  the  post- 
master smoked  their  pipes  outside  until  the 
first  outburst  of  childish  grief  had  spent 
itself. 

It  appeared  then  that  the  little  Miss 
must  tell  them  to  whom  they  should  send 
a  telegram.  How  painful  and  new  to  be 
obliged  to  think;  how  choking  were  the 
vague  thoughts.  But  at  last  a  ray  of  com- 
fort; they  should  telegraph  Farquharson, 
her  dear,  dear  nurse.  The  name  was  slow- 
ly spelled.  And  the  address?  Perfectly, 
ii 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis  knew  the  street  and  number  of 
that  fascinating  home  of  hers,  but  she  now 
remembered  that  Farquharson  would  not 
be  there;  that  Farquharson  had  gone  to 
visit  her  brother  in  a  little  town  in  the  south 
of  England;  a  little  town  of  which  Phyllis 
had  heard  the  most  wonderful,  true  stories ; 
but  she  did  not  know  its  name.  "  Could  n't 
the  telegraph  find  out?"  she  asked;  and 
then,  overcome  with  rushing  thoughts, 
abandoned  herself  again  to  grief. 

"There  are  Mr.  Knowles,  Mr.  Leonard, 
and  Mr.  Singleton,"  she  bethought  her. 
"But  they  are  painting  in  Algiers." 

There  was  a  lady  her  mamma  called 
Molly,  too,  whom  Phyllis  liked  very  much, 
who  came  often  to  tea,  accompanied  by  a 
tiny  brown  dog;  but  the  patient  innkeeper 
could  learn  no  more  of  her  than  that  mamma 
always  called  her  Molly;  the  tiny  brown 
dog's  name,  Phyllis  remembered,  was  Tip. 

12 


OLD  VALENTINES 

How  might  this  poor  innkeeper's  meager 
vocabulary  convey  the  idea  of  relatives  to 
Phyllis's  mind?  But  somehow,  at  last,  it 
was  done. 

"Yes,"  said  Phyllis,  struck  suddenly 
with  the  thought.  "There  is  Uncle  Peter. 
But  my  papa  and  mamma  never  went  to 
see  him,  and  he  never  came  to  see  them." 
A  half-forgotten  word  occurred  to  her,  — 
"They  were  es-tranged." 

The  innkeeper  eyed  her  doubtfully;  but 
Uncle  Peter's  last  name  she  knew,  of 
course;  was  it  not  her  own?  And  his  title, 
too.  The  innkeeper,  impressed,  commu- 
nicated his  intelligence  to  the  postmaster; 
they  made  their  good-byes  awkwardly  and 
left  the  room. 

Two  days  must  elapse  before  the  steamer 

arrived;  ample  time  for  composition.    It 

grieved  the  innkeeper  that  another  name 

than  the  author's  must  be  signed  to  his 

13 


OLD  VALENTINES 

telegram;  but  intellect  yielded  to  rank;  the 
postmaster  signed  alone. 

And  so,  on  a  day  when  the  dreary  church- 
yard, on  a  bleak  hillside,  near  the  little 
fishing  village,  received  the  poor  remains  of 
Robert  Oglebay  and  Valentine,  his  wife,  Sir 
Peter,  in  the  paneled  library  of  his  great 
London  house,  read  these  words :  — 

VALFJELDET,  NORWAY,  August  i8th,  1898. 

Your  niece,  Phyllis  Oglebay,  robbed  of 
her  parents  by  the  remorseless  sea,  awaits 
the  directions  of  her  uncle. 

OLAF  ULVESAKKER,  Postmaster. 

Ten  days  later,  Sir  Peter  Oglebay,  with 
a  drawn  face,  rode  homeward  through  fog- 
enveloped  streets,  with  a  small  girl  in  his 
arms.  One  of  Phyllis 's  hands  held  Sir 
Peter's  tightly,  and  her  tired,  little  head 
rested  upon  his  shoulder. 
14 


OLD  VALENTINES 

There  was  a  sale,  of  course,  of  the  thou- 
sand luxurious  trifles  with  which  improvi- 
dent Robert  Oglebay  and  his  beautiful, 
spirited,  improvident  wife  had  surrounded 
themselves;  trifles  which  had  helped  to 
create  the  artistic  atmosphere  that  was  the 
breath  of  life  to  them.  Half  a  hundred 
creditors  divided  the  proceeds. 

When  Sir  Peter  asked  Phyllis  what  he 
should  save  from  the  wreck  for  her  (not  in 
those  words,  however)  she  asked  him  to 
send  for  all  the  valentines  her  papa  had 
given  her  mamma. 

"Her  name  was  Valentine,  you  know, 
Uncle  Peter,"  explained  Phyllis.  "I  think 
it  is  the  beautifullest  name  there  is.  Long 
before  I  was  born,  and  long  before  they  were 
married,  my  papa  gave  my  mamma  val- 
entines, new  ones  and  old  ones  too  but 
mostly  old  ones.  They  were  the  prettiest. 
Some  of  them  are  a  hundred  years  old.  They 


are  ever  so  pretty,  Uncle  Peter,  and  she  let 
me  play  with  them,  whole  boxes  full  of  them. 
I  loved  them  best  of  all  my  playthings. 
Sometimes  my  papa  called  me  his  little 
Valentine,  but  they  named  me  Phyllis, 
after  my  grandmamma,  my  papa's  mamma. 
Why,  Uncle  Peter,  she  was  your  mamma, 
too,  was  n't  she?"  Phyllis,  sitting  on  Sir 
Peter's  lap,  regarded  him  gravely,  with 
new  interest.  In  the  end,  however,  she 
returned  to  the  subject.  All  the  valen- 
tines—  boxes  and  boxes  of  them  —  were 
to  be  brought  to  her,  if  Uncle  Peter 
pleased. 

His  bookseller  bought  in  the  valentines 
for  Sir  Peter. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Rowlandson,  when  he  read  the  order. 

The  sale  catalogue  described  it  as  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  collections  ever 
brought  together,  and  intimated  that  the 
16 


OLD   VALENTINES 

Museum  should  take  advantage  of  a  rare 
opportunity. 

Another  dealer  was  commissioned  to  buy 
one  of  Robert's  pictures. 

"Any  one,  —  the  best.  Use  your  own 
judgment,"  said  Sir  Peter. 

It  was  a  charming  study,  unfinished,  of 
course,  that  came  the  next  afternoon:  a 
boat,  rolling  heavily  in  gray  water;  and 
seen  through  mist,  the  great  brown  sail, 
looming,  shadowy;  one  sailor,  in  a  red  jer- 
sey, at  the  tiller.  In  the  corner  Robert  had 
scrawled  his  careless  signature  and  the 
words,  —  "  Valf  jeldet,  Norway,  1897."  Sir 
Peter  gently  laid  the  picture  upon  the  glow- 
ing coals  of  the  grate. 

"There  are  six  boxes  come  from  Mr. 
Rowlandson's  shop,  sir,"  said  his  house- 
keeper, standing  quietly  behind  him. 

"Have  the  screws  removed  and  send 
them  up  to  Miss  Phyllis's  room,"  he 
17 


OLD  VALENTINES 

replied.  "They  are  old  valentines,  Bur- 
bage,  old  valentines  that  belonged  to  her 
m —  for  which  she  has  a  childish  fond- 
ness." 


II 

"DOES  N'T  it  seem  to  you  that  the  windows 
let  in  more  sunlight  of  late,  ma'am?"  asked 
a  housemaid.  She  had  just  finished  cleaning 
those  in  the  octagonal  dining-room.  Bur- 
bage  inspected  the  windows. 

"There  is  no  change  in  the  windows  that 
I  can  see,"  she  replied.  "But  there's  more 
sunlight  in  the  house  than  in  many  a  year." 

This  comment  of  his  old  housekeeper, 
six  weeks  after  Sir  Peter  brought  Phyllis 
home,  might  be  accepted  as  the  epitome  of 
her  life  there  for  ten  long  years.  Sir  Peter 
was  as  grim  as  ever  to  the  servants;  but, 
bless  your  heart,  had  n't  they  caught  him 
at  his  pranks  on  the  floor?  Had  n't  they 
seen  his  haggard  face  when  the  doctor  pro- 
nounced it  diphtheria  ?  Had  n't  they  seen 
him  carry  her  downstairs  in  his  own  arms 
19 


OLD  VALENTINES 

on  the  first  day  it  was  allowed  ?  Had  n't 
they  seen  him  helping  her  with  her  lessons, 
at  night,  —  solving  her  complex  problems 
in  his  head  while  she  struggled  over  columns 
of  figures,  and  waiting  at  the  end  of  that 
tortuous  road  with  a  smile  on  his  gaunt 
face,  and  the  right  answer,  to  prove  hers 
right  or  wrong?  But  in  languages,  Sir 
Peter  was  left  at  the  post.  Her  master  in 
French  was  astonished  until  he  learned  her 
mother's  name, — by  accident,  for  it  was 
rarely  spoken  in  that  house.  The  dead  lan- 
guages were  alive  to  her,  too.  The  shelves 
in  her  study-room,  upstairs,  contained  Sir 
Peter's  old  "classics,"  prettily  rebound. 
The  commission  went  to  Mr.  Rowlandson; 
the  execution  was  Riviere's.  Sir  Peter  had 
scarcely  looked  into  them  since  the  old  days 
at  Cambridge. 

Sunlight  in  the  house,  indeed.  Her  sweet 
voice,  in  sudden  song,  might  be  heard  at 
20 


OLD   VALENTINES 

any  moment  of  the  day;  or  the  ripple  of  her 
piano;  or  her  gay  laughter,  musical  as  the 
joyous  notes  of  a  bird. 

She  had  her  intent  of  them  all.  Even  the 
determined  mind  of  Burbage,  stern-fea- 
tured and  steel-spectacled,  she  moulded  to 
a  plastic  acquiescence  with  her  own  sweet 
will.  In  extreme  urgency,  when  Burbage 
was  very  firm,  indeed,  Phyllis  had  a  way 
of  referring  to  dear  Farquharson.  Burbage 
learned  to  anticipate  this  by  yielding  in  the 
nick  of  time. 

By  the  way,  they  had  not  found  a  trace 
of  Farquharson. 

Several  short,  sharp  battles  she  had  with 
Sir  Peter;  the  cause,  in  each  instance,  the 
same.  He  did  not  try  to  disguise  his  desire 
that  she  should  forget  her  mother.  The 
first  encounter  between  them  took  place 
within  a  year  of  her  home-coming. 

"If   I   cannot   remember   my   darling, 

21 


OLD   VALENTINES 

darling  mamma  in  your  house,  Uncle  Peter, 
I  shall  not  stay  here,"  she  declared.  "  I  will 
go  away  and  never,  never  come  back  any 
more.  And  then  you  would  be  sorry." 

Sir  Peter  compromised  with  irrelevant 
sweets.  But  he  saw  she  was  terribly  in 
earnest,  for  such  a  little  girl. 

From  time  to  time  a  similar  incident 
disturbed  the  loving  relationship  between 
them;  a  relationship  that  was  perfect 
otherwise,  in  confidence,  sincerity  and  af- 
fection. 

When  she  was  eighteen,  some  one  told 
her  she  began  to  look  like  her  mother. 

"God  forbid!"  said  Sir  Peter,  when  she 
told  him. 

Phyllis  went  white. 

"Uncle  Peter,  my  mother  was  an  angel. 
She  was  my  father's  — " 

"Ruin,"  interposed  Sir  Peter,  his  brows 
darkening. 

22 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"  She  was  his  dream  of  Heaven.  I  heard 
him  tell  her  so.     She  was  a  dear,  sweet 


woman." 


Sir  Peter  growled;  but  Phyllis  always  had 
the  last  word  on  these  occasions. 

"  I  love  her  memory  and  I  always  shall, 
as  I  should  have  dearly  loved  her  if  —  if  she 
could  have  stayed  with  me.  You  must  never 
speak  or  even  think  unkindly  of  her  if  you 
want  me  to  love  you,  or  if  you  want  me  to 
live  with  you.  She  was  my  mother  and — " 
Then  she  fled  to  her  room.  Burbage  could 
have  been  heard  murmuring,  "There,  there, 
my  pretty." 

It  was  true.  As  she  grew  older  it  became 
apparent  she  had  inherited  her  mother's 
marvelous  beauty.  She  was  a  tall  girl;  a 
mass  of  golden  coils  surmounted  the  proud 
head,  set  so  well  on  her  neck  and  shoulders ; 
her  eyes  were  the  deepest  blue;  you  might 
have  thought  her  expression  sad,  but  her 
23 


OLD  VALENTINES 

sensitive  mouth  was  mirthful  as  well  as 
tender;  in  merriment  her  eyes  danced.  When 
she  talked  earnestly  she  caught  her  breath 
in  the  prettiest  way;  she  had  indescribable 
charm.  Her  hands  were  long  and  slender, 
unadorned  with  rings;  she  simply  did  n't 
care  for  them.  She  usually  wore  white,  and 
the  larger  the  hat  the  better  she  liked  it. 

By  the  time  Phyllis  was  twenty,  she  had 
read  all  that  was  good  for  her,  and  was 
ready  to  look  at  life  itself  with  frankness, 
and  judge  it  by  standards  of  her  own.  The 
windows  of  the  Carlton  Club  knew  Sir 
Peter  no  more.  She  led  him  everywhere. 
You  might  have  seen  them  at  the  Abbey 
one  day;  on  another  in  the  Temple  Gar- 
dens, or  looking  up  at  Dr.  Johnson's  house, 
in  Gough  Square.  Sir  Peter  gloomed  in  the 
doorways  of  shops  while  she  made  leisurely 
purchases  within.  He  pointed  out  the  best 
pictures  in  the  National  Gallery;  and  could 
24 


OLD  VALENTINES 

tell  her  why  they  were  the  best.  They 
motored  through  England  and  France;  Sir 
Peter  absorbed  in  old  fortifications,  Phyllis 
regardful  of  the  babies  tumbling  through 
cottage  doorways.  In  London  one  often 
saw  them  walking  in  the  park,  her  face 
aglow  with  animation,  her  movements  as 
free  from  constraint  as  a  young  deer;  her 
flow  of  conversation  never  failing.  Sir 
Peter,  keeping  step,  regarded  her,  idola- 
trous. Unconsciously  she  showed  him  her 
soul,  and  looking  therein  he  found  his  eyes 
blurred  with  unexpected  tears. 

Soft  but  imperious  Phyllis !  The  theater 
bored  Sir  Peter  beyond  expression.  But  on 
First  Nights  you  might  be  certain  he  would 
have  a  box.  Radiant  Phyllis,  in  white  silk, 
leaning  forward  eagerly  to  catch  every 
word,  was  tremulous  with  excitement  at 
the  end  of  the  play.  During  the  drive  home- 
ward Sir  Peter  endeavored,  artfully,  to 
25 


OLD  VALENTINES 

conceal  that  he  had  slept  through  half  an 
act. 

You  may  be  sure  that  mothers  with  eli- 
gible sons  invited  him  to  dine;  grumbling, 
but  facing  the  inevitable,  he  accepted.  His 
hawk's  eyes  glowered  at  the  young  men 
from  Cambridge  and  Oxford,  but  he  invited 
them  to  his  house.  Coaxed  by  their  mothers 
they  called  the  first  time,  and  thereafter 
were  with  difficulty  restrained.  Phyllis  was 
kind  to  each,  and  interested  in  all;  but  Sir 
Peter  observed  with  satisfaction  that  she 
was  most  pleased  when  they  came  in  pairs. 
He  chuckled  over  his  magazine,  under  a 
reading-lamp,  at  the  far  end  of  the  library 
many  times,  while  Phyllis  entertained  her 
admirers;  but  at  times  he  scowled.  "Too 
fast,  too  fast,  you  young  fool,"  he  muttered 
to  his  white  mustache. 

They  were  thoroughly  agreeable  young 
men,  and  Phyllis  enjoyed  it  all  hugely.  She 
26 


OLD  VALENTINES 

approached  the  consideration  of  the  sex 
from  a  perfectly  fresh  and  candid  point  of 
view.  Sir  Peter  had  the  benefit  of  her  im- 
pressions each  morning  with  his  egg  and 
toast  and  tea.  "The Times"  had  long  since 
been  banished  from  breakfast. 

One  morning  she  was  spiritless. 

"Uncle  Peter,  I  have  something  very, 
very  important  to  tell  you." 

"I  am  listening  most  attentively,  my 
dear." 

"Uncle  Peter,  you  know  Mr.  Holroyd, 
—  Mr.  Mark  Holroyd,  I  mean,  not  his 
brother  Dick." 

"I  can't  say  I  know  him  very  well,  my 
dear.  He  has  called  several  times,  to  be 
sure,  and  dined  with  us  once.  We  have 
dined  at  General  Holroyd's  twice,  I  think, 
when  Mark  was  present.  I  believe  he  has 
made  three  remarks  to  me:  first,  that 
Cambridge  was  slow;  second,  that  he  liked 
27 


OLD  VALENTINES 

a  Doherty  racket  best,  —  I  think  it  was  a 
Doherty  he  preferred;  and  third,  that  the 
Halls,  this  month,  were —  'rather." 

Phyllis's  smile  comprehended  and  con- 
firmed. 

"But  he  is  very  nice,  Uncle  Peter." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Sir  Peter. 
"His  father  is  one  of  the  finest  men  I  have 
ever  known ;  his  mother  was  a  Churchill.  Is 
Mark  to  read  for  the  Bar?" 

"Y-e-es,"  said  Phyllis  doubtfully.  "I 
hope  so.  Oh!  Uncle  Peter,  last  night,  in 
the  hall—" 

;  "In  the  hall,  eh?"  interrupted  Sir 
Peter. 

"Yes,  dear,  in  the  hall.  He  —  he  pro- 
posed to  me.  I  told  him  I  had  never 
thought  of  him  in  that  way  at  all.  And  — " 

"I  should  hope  not,"  said  Sir  Peter.  He 
liked  Mark  well  enough,  but  there  was 
plenty  of  time.    And  he  made  a  mental 
28 


OLD  VALENTINES 

memorandum  to  keep  his  eye  on  the  hall 
thereafter. 

"And,  oh!  Uncle  Peter,  he  said  the  light 
had  gone  out  of  his  life,  and  that  he  could 
never  get  over  such  a  crushing  blow,  and 
that  he  wished  he  was  —  Uncle  Peter, 
they  —  they  always  do  get  over  it,  don't 
they?" 

"In  no  time  at  all,"  replied  Sir  Peter 
briskly,  and  helped  himself  to  toast.  There 
was  a  pause. 

"Still,  I  doubt  if  Mr.  Holroyd  will  get 
over  it  as  quickly  as  that,"  said  Phyllis 
thoughtfully. 

"Haberdashers  are  a  very  present  help 
in  time  of  trouble,"  Sir  Peter  assured  her. 
"They  are  a  great  comfort  to  young  men 
in  Mark's  situation." 

When  she  kissed  him  good-bye  for  the 
day,  he  said :  — 

"My  little  girl  must  wait  a  long  while 
29 


OLD  VALENTINES 

and  meet  many  young  men  before  she 
finally —  er  —  finally  —  you  know,  —  eh  ? " 

But  on  that  very  afternoon  she  went  with 
her  friend,  the  Hon.  Margaret  Neville, 
to  visit  Saint  Ruth's  Social  Settlement,  in 
Whitechapel.  And  there  she  met  John  Land- 
less. The  Honorable  Margaret  introduced 
them. 

"Hullo,  Mr.  Landless  —  oh!  Miss  Ogle- 
bay —  Mr.  Landless.  It's  her  first  time 
here.  Show  her  about  a  bit  like  a  good  chap, 
will  you,  while  I  look  for  to  see  what  my 
angel  children's  sewing-class  is  doing  so 
blithely,  blithely?" 

John  Landless  looked  at  Phyllis,  and 
Phyllis  looked  at  John.  If  there  is  ever 
love  at  first  sight!  Perhaps  it  never  hap- 
pens in  this  prosy  old  twentieth  century. 
But,  if  it  ever  does,  then  —  there  you  are. 

"  It  will  be  a  pleasure  to  showyou  through 
the  house,"  said  John.  "  I  wish  Dr.  Thorpe, 
30 


OLD   VALENTINES 

the  warden,  were  here,  though ;  you  should 
meet  him;  he's  great.  That  is  Mrs.  Thorpe 
—  over  there,  talking  to  the  woman  who 
is  crying.  She  will  have  her  straightened 
out  before  you  can  say  Jack  Robinson,  • — 
and  no  nonsense  either." 

It  took  a  little  longer  than  that,  but  in  a 
few  minutes  the  woman  went  away  smiling; 
and  then  Phyllis  met  Mrs.  Thorpe,  who 
won  her  at  once. 

"I  leave  you  in  good  hands,  Miss  Ogle- 
bay,"  she  said,  when  she  was  called  away. 
"You  will  hear  Saint  Ruth's  praises  sung. 
We  shall  hope  to  see  you  here  often." 

"I  am  so  glad  I  came,"  said  Phyllis, 
"and  you  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Landless,  to 
explain  things  to  me.  Are  you  certain  I  am 
not  taking  too  much  of  your  time?" 

"Oh,  we  will  glance  at  my  boys  as  we  go 
along,"  replied  John.  "The  afternoons  are 
not  especially  busy.  The  evenings  are  full, 


OLD  VALENTINES 

though,  with  classes,  and  clubs,  and  games, 
and  all  that,  —  you  know." 

They  walked  through  the  rooms  devoted 
to  social  amelioration;  to  the  mental,  physi- 
cal, and  spiritual  redemption  of  sordid  lives. 
To  these  rooms  men  from  the  universities, 
impelled  by  a  new  conscience,  bring 'their 
learning  and  their  refinement.  In  these 
rooms  men  from  the  docks  —  the  flotsam 
and  jetsam  of  humanity  —  receive  their 
first  glimpse  of 

"Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades." 

While  John  explained  the  theory  and 
practice  of  such  social  settlements  as  Toyn- 
bee  Hall,  and  Mansfield  House,  and  Saint 
Ruth's,  Phyllis  found  time  to  study  his 
face.  His  black  hair  was  cut  short,  but  it 
curled  for  all  that;  his  dark  eyes  were  fine, 
the  eyebrows  very  thick.  His  mouth  closed 
tightly,  a  little  too  tightly,  perhaps.  But 
32 


OLD  VALENTINES 

his  chin!  "He  will  have  his  way,"  thought 
Phyllis.  She  noticed  that  he  stood  very 
straight,  that  his  shoulders  were  broad,  and 
that  his  light  gray  suit  became  him  well. 

In  the  room  to  which  the  Hon.  Margaret 
Neville  consecrated  ten  hours  a  week  were 
a  number  of  very  small  girls,  trying  to  use 
needles  without  pricking  their  fingers,  and 
not  succeeding  very  well.  John  and  Phyllis 
stood  just  outside  the  door,  waiting  for  the 
dismissal  of  the  class. 

Now,  John  Landless  had  a  test  for  new 
acquaintances,  a  test  evolved  of  trying  ex- 
perience. If  she  laughed  now!  —  or  said, 
"How  odd!" 

"I  find  this  work  tremendously  absorb- 
ing," said  John,  "  and  I  hope  I  am  helpful, 
a  little,  you  know.  But  besides  all  that  I 
think  the  work  helps  me  in  my  profession." 

"Your  profession,"  repeated  Phyllis, 
turning  toward  him  the  sweet,  interested 
33 


OLD  VALENTINES 

face  he  was  watching  so  intently.  "May  I 
ask  what  is  your  profession?" 

"I  am  a  poet,"  said  John  simply,  and 
awaited  results. 

"That  is  a  noble  profession,"  said  Phyl- 
lis. "  I  am  glad  you  have  chosen  it.  I  hope 
you  will  succeed  in  it."  She  colored.  "And 
I  believe  you  will,"  she  added.  She  was 
looking  at  his  chin. 

Then,  for  thefirst  time,  Phyllis  saw  John's 
smile.  He  had  a  wonderful  smile;  the  most 
winning;  he  should  have  smiled  oftener;  but 
life  is  a  serious  business  to  poets,  especially 
at  twenty-four. 

"  It  is  good  of  you  to  say  that,"  said  John. 
"Almost  every  one1  roars.  That  is  —  the 
men.  The  girls  giggle,  or  say,  'How  curi- 
ous ! '  I  think  you  are  the  first  girl  who  has 
ever  taken  it  quite  as  a  matter  of  course 
that  a  man  might  make  poetry  his  profes- 
sion. I  am  prepared  to  defend  the  profession 
34 


OLD   VALENTINES 

of  poetry  against  the  world,  if  need  be; 
but  I  don't  like  to  be  stared  at  while  I  am 
doing  it." 

"I  understand,"  replied  Phyllis  warmly. 
"  If  you  said  the  Army,  or  the  Church,  or 
Engineering,  no  one  would  be  surprised  or 
unsympathetic.  But  they  think  one  should 
be  a  little  ashamed  of  owning  himself  a 
poet.  So  much  the  worse  for  them,"  she 
concluded,  nodding  her  pretty  head  and 
catching  her  breath  in  that  quick  way  of 
hers. 

"You're  very  kind  to  say  so,  but — " 
John  was  about  to  ask  her  if  she  was  sure 
she  meant  it.  Looking  into  Phyllis's  candid 
eyes  he  thought  better  of  it. 

"Are  any  of  your  —  that  is  —  have 
you — ?"  she  stammered,  partly  because 
the  form  of  her  question  puzzled  her; 
partly  because  she  was  aware  of  John's 
ardent  eyes. 

35 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Yes,  I  have  been  in  the  magazines'three 
or  four  times,"  he  replied.  He  knew  that 
question.  "But  I  hope  to  bring  out  a  little 
book  of  poems  in  the  spring." 

"I  shall  be  eager  to  see  it,"  said  Phyllis. 

"Really?  "asked  John. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied,  coloring  again. 
Mark  Holroyd  had  looked  at  her  like  that; 
but  how  different  it  had  been. 

"You  shall  have  one  of  the  first  copies 
off  the  press,"  said  John,  in  a  low  voice, 
"because  you  were  one  of  the  first  to  en- 
courage me  in  all  this  great  London.  And 
I  shall  write  that  in  the  book,  if  you  will 
let  me." 
,  Phyllis  looked  at  him  earnestly. 

"You  must  never  be  discouraged,"  she 
said  slowly.  "There  will  be  difficulties,  of 
course,  and  obstacles,  and  —  and  hard 
places  to  get  over.  All  the  poets  I  have 
read  about  had  a  hard  time  at  first.  But 


OLD   VALENTINES 

there  will  be  friends  to  believe  in  you,  many 
of  them,  who  will  wish  you  success  in  your 
profession." 

"  If  I  could  know  there  was  one,  at  least," 
said  John,  his  dark  eyes  glowing. 

Phyllis  smiled  at  him.  "There  will  be 
many,"  she  repeated. 

The  Honorable  Margaret  joined  them, 
having  delivered  her  closing  remarks  to  her 
class;  remarks  somewhat  pointed  on  the 
subject  of  noses  and  handkerchiefs,  but  in- 
clusive of  cleanliness  and  godliness  gener- 
ally. 

"Splendid  place,  isn't  it,  Phil?"  she  re- 
marked with  enthusiasm.  "  Did  you  see  the 
dispensary,  and  the  nursery,  and  the  gym- 
nasium, and  the  laundry,  and  all  around 
the  shop?" 

"Yes,  I  think  we  saw  everything,"  re- 
plied Phyllis.  "Mr.  Landless  has  explained 
it  all  in  the  most  interesting  way."  - 
37 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"  Will  you  come  again  ? "  asked  John,  as  he 
stood  at  the  curb,  while  they  stepped  into 
the  Neville  motor. 

"She's  sure  to,"  replied  the  Honorable 
Margaret  promptly.  "Saint  Ruth's  eats 
'em  alive.  I  came  to  scoff  and  remained  to 
thread  needles  myself.  Phyllis  will  be  mind- 
ing the  babies  in  a  month,  —  eh,  Phil  ? " 

"I  should  love  to  come  again,"  said 
Phyllis. 

"To-morrow?"  asked  John. 

"No,"  said  the  Honorable  Margaret. 
"To-morrow  's  not  my  day.  I  come  on 
Thursday  next." 

"  I  think  it  would  be  convenient  for  me  to 
come  to-morrow,"  said  Phyllis.  "Perhaps 
that  nice  Mrs.  Thorpe,  to  whom  you  intro- 
duced me,  could  find  something  for  me  to 
do.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to  be  taught 
how  myself  first,  though." 

"Great  Scott!"  cried  the  Honorable 
38 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Margaret,  leaning  back  in  the  car.  "  Saint 
Ruth  has  made  one  mouthful  of  you." 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Landless.  Thank  you 
again,"  said  Phyllis,  extending  a  cordial 
hand. 

"Until  to-morrow,"  said  John. 

He  stood  at  the  curb  watching  the  re- 
ceding car.  When  he  reentered  the  house, 
his  smile  lighted  his  face  wonderfully. 

"What  do  you  think,  Phyllis ! "  whispered 
the  Honorable  Margaret,  her  eye  on  the 
chauffeur.  "Mark  Holroyd  telephoned  me 
at  the  Settlement.  He  told  me  he  needed 
bucking  up  a  bit,  and  was  coming  to  me 
to  be  comforted.  He's  to  be  at  the  house 
at  nine.  Is  n't  he  the  dearest  fellow?" 

Phyllis  opened  her  eyes  wide;  and  then 
half  closed  them. 

"He  is  one  of  the  dearest,  Peggy,"  she 
said  softly. 


Ill 

"LADY  NEVILLE  is  a  most  estimable 
woman,"  observed  Sir  Peter,  at  breakfast 
the  next  morning,  "and  your  friend  Mar- 
garet is  a  very  nice  girl,  as  I  have  observed. 
But  these  places,  my  dear,  these  social 
settlements,  as  they  call  them,  Saint 
Ruth's,  and  —  er  —  the  rest  of  them,  are 
the  breeding-places  of  discontent,  of  un- 
rest; hotbeds  of  socialism.  I  can't  approve 
of  your  going  there  often." 

"Well,  of  course,  Uncle  Peter,  you  know 
far  more  about  it  than  I  do.  But  I  should 
think  that  Saint  Ruth's  would  make  the 
poor  people  more  contented.  If  there  were 
no  such  clean,  bright,  cheery  places  to  go 
to,  and  to  leave  their  babies  in,  and  to  hear 
music  on  summer  nights,  and  see  the  mo- 
tion-pictures which  make  them  forget 
40 


OLD   VALENTINES 

their  hard,  drudging,  colorless  lives  for  a 
little  while,"  —  here  Phyllis  caught  her 
breath  in  that  fascinating  way  she  has  — 
"if  there  were  no  such  helpful  places,  I 
should  think  they  might  be  more  hopeless 
and  bitter.  But  when  they  know  that  Lady 
Neville,  and  you,  and  other  rich  people  care 
something  for  them,  —  enough  to  want  to 
give  them  some  happy  hours;  when  they 
see  Peggy  Neville  teaching  their  little  girls 
to  sew,  —  don't  you  think  they  may  feel 
less  like  throwing  a  stone  through  the  win- 
dows of  her  motor?  " 

"Perhaps,  my  dear  child,  perhaps.  I  do 
not  say  you  are  wrong.  I  am  inclined  to 
think,  however,  that  they  suppose  these  — 
er  —  social  settlements  are  maintained  by 
the  County  Council,  and  supported  by  the 
rates.  And  I  rather  think,"  added  Sir  Peter, 
lighting  his  cigar,  "I  rather  think  they 
believe  they  pay  the  rates  themselves." 


OLD   VALENTINES 

"Have  you  ever  visited  Saint  Ruth's, 
Uncle  Peter?  But  I  am  sure  you  have  n't, 
or  I  should  have  known  it.  Now,  how  can 
you  sit  in  your  library  here  and  analyze 
the  thoughts  and  motives  of  those  poor 
people?  What  must  Saint  Ruth's  seem  to 
them,  compared  with  their  miserable  dwell- 
ings?" 

"I  can't  say  I  have  ever  been  there," 
owned  Sir  Peter,  "but  I  am  one  of  the  Board 
of  Trustees,  in  charge  of  the  funds  of  several 
philanthropic  institutions,  and  I  hear  these 
things  discussed.  But,  my  dear  child,  I  do 
not  wish  to  offer  any  objection  to  your  go- 
ing there  if  you  are  interested.  Good  idea; 
see  the  other  side.  Of  course,  you  won't 
ever  go  alone,  though.  Those  East  End 
streets,  you  know  —  better  take  the  car 
and  have  Thompson  wait.  I  will  make  an 
inquiry  or  two  of  Sir  Charles  Anstruther 
at  the  Club ;  he  takes  a  deep  interest  in  — 
42 


OLD  VALENTINES 

er — these  social  settlements, — Toynbee 
Hall  and —  Ten  o'clock!  I  shall  be  late. 
Good-bye,  my  dear.  Have  a  good  time  in 
your  own  way." 

Phyllis  may  have  confused  inclination 
with  duty  a  little;  in  any  event,  Mrs. 
Thorpe,  whose  kind  face  might  have  served 
for  a  likeness  of  Saint  Ruth  herself,  found 
plenty  of  work  for  her.  And  Phyllis  did 
love  the  babies ;  they  did  not  all  look  alike 
to  her,  as' they  did  to  John.  The  Honorable 
Margaret  found  her  quite  at  home  when 
Thursday  rolled  around. 

"Good  for  you,  Phil!"  was  her  saluta- 
tion. "My  word!  Don't  they  get  dirty 
over-night!" 

When  a  month  had  passed,  it  was  Phyl- 
lis's  custom  to  go  to  Saint  Ruth's  nearly 
every  day.  The  work  was  engrossing;  Dr. 
Thorpe  warned  her  against  overdoing  it;  his 
experience  of  volunteer  workers  was  large. 
43 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Oh!  she  will  stay  with  us,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Thorpe,  to  whom  his  misgivings  were  clear. 
"Miss  Oglebay  and  I  are  to  make  calls  in 
the  neighborhood  this  afternoon." 

"You  will  see  sad  sights,"  said  the  doctor; 
"but  lots  of  funny  ones,  too." 

To  the  Christmas  ceremonies  she  brought 
Sir  Peter,  determined  to  be  pleased,  against 
his  better  judgment.  He  liked  Dr.  Thorpe 
at  once;  Sir  Peter  knew  a  man  when  he  saw 
one.  Mrs.  Thorpe  made  him  chuckle;  so 
he  liked  her,  too.  The  place  was  crowded; 
mostly  with  the  very  poor,  in  their  best  and 
at  their  best;  but  Sir  Peter  was  surprised  to 
meet  a  number  of  his  acquaintances;  not 
so  surprised  as  they  were,  however. 

There  were  two  adjoining  houses  to  be 
leased  and  connected  with  Saint  Ruth's; 
a  matter  of  arrangement  was  submitted 
by  Dr.  Thorpe.  Sir  Peter  paced  off  the 
rooms  for  himself  and  gave  his  opinion.  Dr. 
44 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Thorpe  consulted  strangers  on  problems  of 
obvious  solution;  the  hard  ones  he  and  Mrs. 
Thorpe  thought  out  after  they  went  to  bed. 

They  occupied  front  seats  for  the  enter- 
tainment, and  Phyllis  pointed  people  out 
to  him. 

"There  is  Father  Carroll,"  she  said,  in- 
dicating direction  with  her  programme. 
"Dr.  Thorpe  and  Father  Carroll  and  Mr. 
Landless  are  the  committee.  Father  Carroll 
will  give  the  address  later;  Mr.  Landless 
arranged  the  songs.  I  helped  him  with 
that." 

The  entertainment  was  a  success.  Such 
proud  mothers  and  fathers  when  the  prizes 
were  distributed!  Every  child  had  honor- 
able mention,  at  least.  Father  Carroll  told 
the  funniest  stories ;  how  the  crowd  laughed. 
And  when  he  talked  seriously  to  them  — 
you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop. 

When  John  was  introduced  to  Sir  Peter, 
45 


OLD  VALENTINES 

he  stood  very  straight;  one  stood  at  atten- 
tion, instinctively,  before  Sir  Peter. 

"Very  pleased,  indeed,  to  meet  you,  sir," 
said  Sir  Peter.  "You  don't  happen  to  be  of 
the  Sussex  Landlesses,  do  you?  I  knew  a 
Hugh  Landless  at  Cambridge." 

"Yes,  sir.  They  are  my  people.  He  was 
my  father." 

"Really.  Let  me  see:  he  took  orders,  did 
he  not?  I  hope  I  am  not  to  infer  — " 

"He  died  last  June,  sir." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  did  n't  know. 
I  am  sorry  not  to  have  seen  more  of  him 
after  he  left  the  University.  He  was  a  most 
likeable  fellow.  We  shall  see  more  of  you, 
I  trust?  Have  you  been  long  in  London?" 

"  I  came  after  —  at  once.  There  was 
nothing  to  keep  me  there,  and  I  felt  I 
must  begin  work  in  my  profession  imme- 
diately." 

If  John  had  been  looking  at  Phyllis,  he 


OLD  VALENTINES 

would  have  seen  her  face  flush  slightly;  an 
anxious  look  came  into  her  eyes.  But  he 
was  looking  at  Sir  Peter. 

"What  is  it  to  be?"  asked  Sir  Peter. 
"Not  the  Church?" 

"No,  sir."  John's  chin  was  noticeable 
now.  "I  follow  the  profession  of  poetry." 

"Upon  my  word!"  exclaimed  Sir  Peter, 
and  would  have  said  more. 

"Isn't  it  fine,  Uncle  Peter!"  Phyllis 
interrupted,  her  cheeks  rosy,  and  her  eyes 
starry  pleaders  fora  lost  cause.  "Mr.  Land- 
less means  to  be  a  poet.  That  is  his  chosen 
profession.  Don't  you  think  it  fine  to  make 
such  a  choice,  —  when  one  has  the  talent, 
of  course?"  Her  earnest  voice  fell  before 
Sir  Peter's  stony  gaze. 

"But  poetry  is  n't  a  profession,"  declared 

Sir  Peter  roundly.    He  gave  a  short,  hard 

laugh.   "A  pastime,  perhaps;  a  recreation; 

but  not  a  profession,  Mr.  Landless.    But, 

47 


OLD  VALENTINES 

pshaw!  You  don't  expect  me  to  take  you 
seriously?" 

There  was  an  awkward  moment.  When 
Phyllis  ventured  a  look  at  John,  she  was 
surprised  to  see  him  smiling. 

"I  assure  you  I  am  quite  serious,"  he 
answered  easily.  "  But  I  am  accustomed  to 
the  other  view.  Thank  you  cordially  for 
your  willingness  to  see  something  of  me. 
My  father  would  have  been  pleased.  When 
I  was  going  through  his  papers  I  fancy  I  ran 
across  your  name  in  one  of  his  old  diaries. 
You  won't  think  me  disrespectful  if  I  tell 
you  that  the  diary  spoke  of  you  as  'Top' 
Oglebay." 

"Good  Gad!"  said  Sir  Peter; "I  have 
not  heard  that  name  in  thirty  years.  Yes, 
I  was  'Top'  Oglebay." 

Phyllis  was  glad  to  see  Mark  Holroyd 
and  her  dear  Peggy  Neville  coming  toward 
them.  Mark  was  sheepish,  at  first,  but 
48 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis  put  him  at  his  ease  in  no  time.  The 
Honorable  Margaret  and  John  Landless 
were  sworn  friends.  John  had  applied  the 
test  to  her.  "Perfectly  smashing  1"  was  her 
expressed  opinion  of  his  profession ;  the  fore- 
sight of  Phyllis  had  smoothed  the  way. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Sir  Peter,  as  they  drove 
homeward,  "that  was  all  very  interesting 
and  new.  You  will  help  me  to  remember  to 
send  a  check  to  Thorpe  in  the  morning, 
won't  you,  my  dear?" 

Phyllis,  snuggled  in  furs,  wondered  if  she 
dared  to  make  a  remark,  ever  so  casually, 
about  Mr.  Landless;  concluded  she  dare  n't, 
and  resigned  herself  to  think  of  him  in 
silence. 

A  week  later  John  presented  himself,  in 
evening  dress.  Sir  Peter  chatted  with 
them  for  a  while,  and  then  buried  himself 
in  the  "Engineering  Review."  Over  this 
he  nodded,  oblivious,  while  John  recited  his 
49 


verses  to  Phyllis  at  the  other  end  of  the  long 
library.  They  were  pretty  verses;  Phyllis 
thought  them  beautiful.  You  should  have 
seen  John's  smile.  He  tried  to  screw  his 
courage  up  to  recite  his  "Lines  to  Phyllis," 
but  at  ten  he  hadn't,  and  Sir  Peter  awoke 
then,  and  reentered  the  conversation. 

John  said  good-night  to  Sir  Peter  in  the 
library.  He  would  have  to  Phyllis,  also,  but 
she  went  with  him  into  the  hall.  Sir  Peter 
followed  them  there,  and  said  good-night 
again,  in  the  friendliest  way. 

Phyllis  called  on  Saint  Ruth's  neighbors 
often  in  the  weeks  that  followed.  Mind- 
ful of  her  uncle's  command,  she  was  never 
alone.  Sometimes  Mrs.  Thorpe,  at  others 
Peggy  Neville,  and  quite  often  John  Land- 
less went  with  her.  The  squalor  and  misery 
all  about  them  was  shocking  to  every  sense; 
hideous  at  its  worst;  but  the  sharp,  sweet, 
bitter-sweet  memories  of  those  winter  af  ter- 
50 


OLD  VALENTINES 

noons  will  linger  in  Phyllis's  mind  as  long 
as  she  lives.  Sad  memories  and  joyous  ones ! 
And  one  more  lovely  than  all  the  rest. 

There  came  a  day  when,  long  in  advance 
of  its  arrival,  there  was  a  sudden  hint  of 
spring.  Carrying  a  parcel,  John  walked 
beside  Phyllis.  The  soft  air  was  filled  with 
magic.  The  mildness  of  it  brought  the  tene- 
ment dwellers  to  windows  and  doors. 

"Warm,  is  n't  it?"  remarked  John,  try- 
ing to  fan  himself  with  the  parcel,  and  fail- 
ing. "Please  don't  walk  so  fast;  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 
_  "Tell  away,  Mr.  Landless,  tell  away," 
said  Phyllis,  gayly,  and  slackened  her  pace. 
" Is  there  good  news  of  your  book?  Do  the 
flinty-hearted  publishers  at  last  see  their 
opportunity?" 

"No,  they  don't,"  said  John.  "In  fact 
—  well,  I  am  glad  my  opinion  of  my  poetry 
is  n't  governed  by  theirs." 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis  stole  a  quick  look  at  his  face;  but 
the  chin  was  uplifted,  confident  as  ever. 

"Is  the  boys'  club  making  progress?" 
she  asked. 

"  Splendid !  But  I  want  to  talk  about  you 
and  me." 

"You  and  me — "  three  little  words. 
The  subtle  spring  air  wafted  odors  of  Ar- 
cady. 

For  a  few  moments  they  walked  on  si- 
lently. John  was  preparing  his  sentences, 
and  he  could  never  be  hurried  at  that. 

Phyllis  knew  what  was  coming;  she  knew, 
she  knew!  Ah!  the  rapture  of  it,  the  love- 
liness of  it  all!  the  poignant  beauty  of  the 
still  unspoken  words.  Phyllis  was  willing 
to  wait ;  he  had  nothing  to  tell  her  she  did  n't 
know;  but  she  wanted  to  hear  it  said,  and 
remember  each  word  to  dream  over  after- 
ward. 

Slowly  they  walked,  in  the  mean  little 
52 


OLD   VALENTINES 

street,  past  dark  passages,  leading  into 
tenements;  past  knots  of  lounging  men; 
little  mothers  with  heavy  babies  struggling 
in  their  thin  arms;  rowdies  with  vacuous 
eyes;  and  girls  flaunting  cheap  finery. 

"May  I  call  you  Phyllis?"  asked  John, 
breaking  the  silence  suddenly. 

"Why,  yes;  if  you  wish  —  and  if  you 
think  you  ought,  you  know." 

"Well,  then,  —  Phyllis.  Your  name  has 
become  to  me  the  one  name  worth  saying 
in  the  world.  Ever  since  I  met  you  for  the 
first  time,  four  months  ago,  I  have  been 
saying  it,  Phyllis ;  but  I  wanted  to  say  it  to 
you.  So  with  your  face :  I  know  every  mood 
of  you  by  the  lights  and  shadows  of  it.  I 
can  see  it  in  your  absence,  almost  as  well 
as  when  I  am  with  you.  Your  dear,  sweet 
face,  Phyllis,  and  your  crown  of  gold,  and 
your  loyal  eyes,  I  know  by  heart,  as  well  as 
your  name.  Dear  Phyllis.  And  I  know,  too, 
53 


OLD   VALENTINES 

your  quick  and  beautiful  mind;  its  clear, 
wise  judgment  of  the  true  and  the  false.  I 
know  its  freedom  from  selfishness,  and  all 
littleness.  I  know  its  purity  and  its  stead- 
fastness. I  know  your  capable  hands, 
Phyllis,  and  your  eager,  pitying  heart,  — 
for  I  have  seen  them  at  work  day  after 
day,  and  week  after  week.  I  love  you,  my 
dearest,  and  I  must  tell  you  so.  I  think  I 
have  loved  you  longer  than  I  have  known 
you,  but  I  know  I  have  loved  you  as  long. 
Perhaps  you  can  care  for  me,  and  perhaps 
you  can't.  Sometimes  I  have  dared  to 
hope  you  might,  but  almost  always  I  have 
known  it  was  too  high  a  hope.  For  I  am 
only  a  poor  poet,  with  nothing  but  faith 
in  myself  and  love  for  you  to  offer.  I  know 
you  have  everything;  a  beautiful  home, 
and  beautiful  clothes,  and  beautiful  jewels, 
probably,  though  I  have  n't  seen  them. 
Every  wish  of  yours  is  answered  almost  be- 
54 


MAY    I    CALL   YOU    PHYLLIS  '. 


OLD  VALENTINES 

fore  you  know  it  is  yours.  Life's  promise 
to  you  is  the  earth  and  the  fullness  thereof; 
and  I  offer  you  only  love.  But  in  the  end 
I  shall  win,  Phyllis,  I  am  perfectly  certain 
of  that.  I  shall  never,  never  be  rich;  pos- 
sibly never  even  well-to-do;  but  I  love  you, 
Phyllis;  I  love  you.  I  want  to  ask  you  to 
wait  for  me  —  and  be  my  wife." 

With  a  pretty  impulse  she  took  one  of 
his  hands  and  raised  it  to  her  lips. 

People  were  passing  almost  constantly. 
They  were  forced  to  separate,  to  pass  a 
group  of  children,  playing  noisily  on  the 
pavement. 

"I  know  I  should  have  spoken  to  your 
uncle,  first,"  he  said,  "but  I  knew  he  would 
say  no,  unless  —  unless  you  asked  him, 
too." 

"Ah!  but  I  am  so  glad  you  told  me  to- 
day," said  Phyllis.  "I  am  so  glad,  so  glad! 
Of  all  the  days  in  the  year  I  should  have 
55 


OLD  VALENTINES 

i 

chosen  to-day.    You  don't  know  why,  do 

you?    Because  to-day  is  the  fourteenth  of 
February,  —  Saint  Valentine's  Day." 

In  a  rush  of  words  she  told  him  of  her 
mother's  name,  and  of  her  mother,  and  of 
her  valentines. 

"You  have  n't  told  me  you  love  me  yet," 
said  John. 

"Can't  you  hear  my  heart  singing  it?" 
asked  Phyllis. 

"But  I  want  to  hear  you  say  the  words," 
he  urged. 

"I  love  you,  John,"  said  Phyllis  softly. 

"And  you  will  promise  to  marry  me — • 
some  day?"  he  asked. 

"Yes  —  some  day,"  she  repeated  shyly. 

"And  you  are  not  afraid  of  the  fu- 
ture?" 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Phyllis.  She  smiled  up 
at  him.    "You  must  take  me  home,  now, 
and  we  will  tell  Uncle  Peter." 
56 


OLD  VALENTINES 

They  rode  home  on  the  top  of  a  motor- 
bus.  He  tucked  her  hand  into  his  greatcoat 
pocket,  and  held  it  there.  Their  mood  was 
exalted.  The  streets  were  glorified;  the 
gloomy  buildings  had  become  wonderful 
castles;  their  fellow-passengers  were  sur- 
rounded with  the  mystery  of  romance. 

It  grew  colder  rapidly;  at  the  terminus 
they  clambered  down  stiffly.  Twilight  had 
fallen  when  they  reached  the  great  gates  of 
the  park.  John  stopped  and  laid  a  detain- 
ing hand  on  Phyllis's  arm.  They  kissed  for 
the  first  time.  Moment  of  ecstasy! 

It  is  doubtful  if  they  would  ever  have  got 
past  the  park  gates  except  for  the  warning 
whistle  of  a  hurrying  messenger  boy,  on  a 
bicycle. 

"My  eye!  What  a  smack!"  he  yelled,  as 
he  shot  past.  John  glared,  but  Phyllis 
laughed  happily. 

He  would  have  lingered  as  they  walked 
57 


OLD  VALENTINES 

down  the  long  street  to  the  house;  but 
Phyllis  had  no  doubt  of  the  outcome;  Sir 
Peter's  frown  was  without  terrors  for  her, 
but  to  John  —  how  formidable.  His  foot- 
steps lagged  as  they  climbed  the  wide  steps 
to  the  door. 

i  "Sir  Peter  was  called  out  of  town  by  a 
telegram,"  said  Burbage,  in  the  hall.  "He 
said  he  would  be  home  by  a  late  train. 
Thompson's  to  meet  the  twelve-thirty." 

John  clutched  at  this  reprieve. 

"I  have  a  class  at  Saint  Ruth's  at  seven," 
he  said.  "  I  must  hurry  away,  Miss  ^Ogle- 
bay."  Burbage  was  helping  Phyllis  with  her 
furs. 

It  was  arranged  he  should  call  early  the 
following  morning.  They  exchanged  sig- 
nificant looks,  and  he  was  gone.  A  ring, 
set  with  old-fashioned  garnets,  was  left  in 
the  hand  he  had  pressed ;  oneof  his  mother's 
rings,  worn  on  his  watch-chain,  j 
58 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis  seized  Burbage  and  danced  her 
up  and  down  the  hall  and  back  again, 
demoralizing  the  rugs.  Then,  having  picked 
up  her  muff  and  thrown  it  at  her,  Phyllis 
raced  up  the  stairs. 


IV 

SIR  PETER  was  gruff  at  the  breakfast  table. 
The  hurriedly  written  telegram,  or  his  hasty 
reading  of  it,  had  led  him  a  wild-goose  chase. 
To  find  your  host  concealing  surprise  as 
he  shakes  hands,  and  to  learn,  at  the  end 
of  ten  minutes  of  feverish  cordiality,  that 
you  were  invited  to  dine  the  following 
night,  is  never  comfortable,  even  at  the 
home  of  an  old  friend.  When  two  hours  on 
a  train  each  way  are  involved,  and  loss  of 
one's  sleep  as  well  — !  A  bleak  east  wind, 
this  morning,  too,  and  Sir  Peter  was  Jarn- 
dyced  as  to  that  quarter. 

Worst  of  all,  Phyllis  looked  like  her 
mother,  with  her  hair  over  her  ears,  like 
that;  the  likeness  always  irritated  Sir  Peter, 
but  this  morning  it  was  particularly  strik- 
ing. 

60 


OLD  VALENTINES 

He  accepted  her  morning  endearments 
graciously,  but  Phyllis  was  glad  the  toast 
was  n't  cold.  She  recognized  unpropitious 
portents. 

John  was  shown  into  the  library  at  ten, 
sharp;  his  chin  had  come  to  his  rescue.  He 
gave  Phyllis  a  bright  look,  and  led  up  to  the 
business  in  hand  promptly. 

Sir  Peter,  savoring  his  cigar,  "The Times  " 
spread  over  his  knees,  invited  the  young 
man  to  be  seated;  the  young  man  preferred 
to  stand,  and  did,  very  straight,  his  back  to 
the  fireplace.  His  eyes  were  large  and  seri- 
ous, his  color  high;  his  hands  were  behind 
him  and  the  nervous  fingers  could  n't  be 
seen.  Phyllis  viewed  her  champion  with 
approving  eyes,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  her 
chair. 

"  I  am  afraid  my  errand  won'^be  an  agree- 
able one  to  you,  sir,"  John  began.    "I  am 
sure  it  would  n't  be  to  me  if  —  if  I  were 
61 


OLD  VALENTINES 

you.  But  I  must  tell  you  my  story  from  the 
beginning,  if  you  are  willing.  You  knew  my 
father  and  something  of  my  family.  The 
people  of  his  parish  were  tremendously  fond 
of  him.  He  gave  them  all  of  himself.  He 
died  poor,  of  course,  and  left  me  a  good 
name  and  two  hundred  pounds  a  year. 
The  countryside  came  to  his  funeral.  The 
faces  of  the  men  were  streaked  with  tears, 
as  they  stood  by  his  grave,  and  women  wept 
openly.  I  had  letters  of  sympathy  from 
every  county  in  England,  from  Canada, 
and  from  far-away  India.  His  spirit  was  as 
gentle  as  a  child's ;  but  he  welded  men  and 
women  to  him  as  with  bonds  of  steel.  Yet  he 
had  never  tried  a  cause,  nor  built  a  bridge, 
nor  saved  a  life  as  a  physician,  nor  laid 
one  down  as  a  soldier.  He  has  n't  even  left 
a  sermon  in  print,  for  he  never  wrote 


one." 


John  hesitated.   Sir  Peter  rustled  "The 
62 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Times"  uneasily.  Phyllis  sat  perfectly  still, 
waiting. 

"My  father  taught  me  more  than  I 
learned  at  Magdalene,  and  he  gave  me  my 
ideals.  Perhaps  they  are  unusual,  but  I 
believe  they  are  true.  They  may  be  told 
in  a  few  words,  —  to  face  life  fearlessly, 
live  it  cleanly  and  fully,  and  use  it  to  what 
end  one's  conscience  and  one's  talents  di- 
rect, without  too  much  regard  for  the  care- 
less opinion  of  the  world.  I  have  n't  any- 
thing behind  me  that  I  am  ashamed  of.  I 
am  far  from  being  ashamed  of  my  profes- 
sion, though  I  admit  it  has  seemed  to  re- 
quire defense  rather  often  since  I  came  to 
London.  My  father  encouraged  me  to 
adopt  it  when  I  suggested  the  idea  to  him. 
I  will  tell  you  what  he  said  to  me.  It  was 
this:  'All  work  is  fine.  Of  course,.!  think 
labor  in  the  Church  of  God  is  the  finest. 
But  every  profession  offers  opportunities 
63 


OLD  VALENTINES 

for  useful  service;  and  trade  is  honorable 
to  honorable  men.  But,  John,'  said  he, 
'one  imperishable  poem  is  worth  more  to 
mankind  than  all  the  gold  and  silver  stored 
in  the  stronghold  of  the  Bank  of  England. 
You  may  never  write  one,  but  a  lifetime 
devoted  to  trying  will  not  be  wasted.'  That 
was  what  my  father  said,  sir." 

"That  would  be  like  him  as  I  recall  him," 
said  Sir  Peter  shortly.  He  had  no  inkling 
yet  of  John's  errand.  He  was  disposed  to 
be  generous  to  this  quixotic  young  man  for 
his  father's  sake. 

Phyllis  wondered  how  any  one  could 
look  at  John  or  hear  him  speak,  and  not 
love  him;  but  she  had  momentary  pangs  of 
foreboding;  a  vague  presentiment  of  im- 
pending unhappiness. 

"  I  settled  his  few  affairs,  —  he  did  not 
owe  a  penny,  —  and  I  came  to  London. 
There  had  been  some  correspondence  be- 
64 


OLD  VALENTINES 

tween  Dr.  Thorpe  and  my  father,  and  I 
called  at  Saint  Ruth's.  I  thought  I  saw  a 
chance  of  touching  a  larger  life  and  of 
doing  a  little  good;  I  have  given  some  of 
my  afternoons  and  all  of  my  evenings  there 
ever  since.  Dr.  Thorpe  is  a  brick,  as  you 
know,  sir;  he  and  his  wife  have  been  very 
kind  to  me.  I  was  rather  lonely  at  first, 
and  —  all  that.  My  mornings  I  devote  to 
my  profession.  I  think  I  have  made  some 
progress,  if  only  in  finding  the  wrong  ways 
of  putting  words  together."  John  smiled. 
"There  are  a  great  many  wrong  ways  and 
I  am  finding  them  all,  one  by  one." 

Sir  Peter  concealed  his  impatience;  the 
dull  ache  in  Phyllis's  heart  continued,  she 
knew  not  why. 

"I  met  Miss  Oglebay  at  Saint  Ruth's 
some  months  ago.  I  think  I  must  tell  you, 
sir,  that  from  the  very  first  moment  I 
loved  her." 

65 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Sir  Peter  half  rose  from  his  chair,  in  his 
sudden  astonishment." 

"The  devil  you  say!"  he  gasped.  "Upon 
my  word,  this  is  effrontery.  You  amaze  me, 
Landless.  You  must  have  lost  your  senses. 
My  niece"  —  he  turned  to  Phyllis.  Some- 
thing he  saw  in  her  face  diverted  the  tor- 
rent. "Has  Landless  spoken  of  this  to 
you  ? "  he  asked  grimly. 

"Yes,  Uncle  Peter.  He  told  me  yester- 
day that  he  —  he  cared  for  me,  and  we 
both  hurried  home  to  tell  you,  but  you 
were — " 

Sir  Peter  was  out  of  his  chair,  and  on  his 
feet,  now. 

"You  spoke  to  my  niece  before  you  came 
to  me,  Landless;  knowing  that  I  had  met 
you  —  not  more  than  three  times,  at  most; 
that  you  had  been  in  my  house  but  once  ?" 
His  voice  was  raised,  his  scowl  threaten- 
ing. . 

66 


OLD   VALENTINES 

"I  am  sorry  to  have  seen  so  little  of  you, 
sir,"  said  John.  "But  I  have  seen  a  great 
deal  of  Phyllis." 

"Where,  sir?"  demanded  Sir  Peter. 

"At  Saint  Ruth's,  and  in  its  neighbor- 
hood," John  answered  evenly.  "We  have 
worked  there  together." 

"How  long  has  this  been  going  on?" 
Sir  Peter  had  regained  control  of  himself, 
but  his  fine  face  was  distorted.  Phyllis 's 
hands  were  clenched  tightly  in  her  lap.  She 
was  very  pale. 

j  "If  you  mean  how  long  have  we  been 
meeting  each  other  there,  and  going  about 
in  the  neighborhood  together  — " 

"  I  think  my  meaning  is  clear,  sir." 

"About  four  months,  then.  It  seems  a 
short  time,  but  we  have  seen  each  other 
almost  every  day." 

"Landless,  you  are  a  sneak,"  said  Sir 
Peter  quietly.  "You  are  a  damned  sneak." 
67 


OLD  VALENTINES 

John's  face  flamed;  he  started  as  if  struck 
by  a  whip. 

"Oh,  no!  Uncle  Peter!"  cried  Phyllis. 
"Oh,  no,  no!  Uncle  Peter." 

"Leave  the  house,  Landless." 

"But  Mr.  Landless  is  my  guest!"  She 
was  as  pale  as  death,  now,  and  breathing 
hurriedly;  her  eyes  were  unnaturally  large, 
and  there  was  a  stricken  look  in  them. 

"You  heard  what  I  said,  Landless."  The 
voice  was  unyielding. 

John  moved  toward  the  door,  chin  up 
and  shoulders  squared.  Phyllis  intercepted 
him  swiftly,  and  put  both  hands  appeal- 
ingly  on  his  arm. 

"Wait  a  moment,  John.  Oh,  wait  a  mo- 
ment for  my  sake,  John,"  she  pleaded. 

"I  can't,"  said  John.  "You  know  that 
I  can't." 

"Ah,  but  you  must,  John,  for  my  sake; 
for  my  sake." 

68 


OLD  VALENTINES 

She  linked  her  hands  closely  about  his 
arm  and  turned  to  her  uncle.  John,  facing 
the  door,  moved  slowly  toward  it,  trying 
gently  to  disengage  her  hands,  and  forcing 
her  to  walk  a  step  or  two  backward  as  she 
spoke. 

"I  must  ask  you  to  apologize  to  Mr. 
Landless,  Uncle  Peter,"  she  said  earnestly. 
"Whatever  fault  there  has  been,  if  there 
has  been  any,  is  mine.  I  have  often  spoken 
to  you  of  meeting  Mr.  —  of  meeting  John 
at  Saint  Ruth's.  But  I  see  now  you  did  n't 
realize  how  often  I  went  there,  nor  that  I 
was  with  him  so  many  of  the  times.  I 
should  have  told  you,  Uncle  Peter;  the 
fault  was  mine,  not  John's.  I  am  sorry, 
Uncle  Peter,  and  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me. 
But  you  must  apologize  to  John."  She 
looked  at  the  stern  face  entreatingly;  the 
doorway  was  very  near. 

"Oh,  John,"  she  implored,  "I  beg  you 
69 


OLD  VALENTINES 

to  wait  a  moment;  just  a  tiny  second. 
Uncle  Peter  will  tell  you  he  did  n't  under- 
stand." 

John  stopped,  and  stood  facing  the  door- 
way, his  back  turned  to  Sir  Peter. 

They  waited  in  silence;  the  slow  ticking 
of  the  tall  clock  could  be  heard. 

"I  love  him  dearly,  Uncle  Peter,"  whis- 
pered Phyllis. 

Ah!  Valentine  Germain;  pretty,  dead 
Valentine  Germain;  your  daughter  is  won- 
derfully like  you  now. 

"I  ask  you  to  wait,  Landless,"  said  Sir 
Peter. 

His  next  words  were  calmly  spoken;  de- 
liberate, passionless;  the  more  awful  for 
that. 

"I  have  known  one  reckless  marriage, 

Landless,  and  one  is  enough  for  a  lifetime. 

There  is  a  taint  in  all  of  this  of  which  you 

know  nothing.  This  unhappy  child's  fa- 

70 


OLD  VALENTINES 

ther  was  a  fool.  Her  mother  was  a  shallow, 
soulless,  shameless  creature  —  and  worse. 
Her—" 

"It  is  a  lie!"  cried  Phyllis.  "A  cruel, 
cruel  lie!  God  pity  you,  Uncle  Peter,  and 
forgive  you.  I  am  sorry  for  you ;  I  am  sorry 
for  you.  You  have  nursed  those  bitter, 
black  thoughts  in  your  heart  for  so  many 
years  that  they  have  poisoned  your  life. 
But  you  have  soiled  my  mother's  memory 
for  the  last  time  in  my  presence.  Never, 
never  again ! "  A  great  sob  choked  her.  "  I 
am  going  to  leave  you,  Uncle  Peter.  I  am 
grateful  to  you  for  many  years  of  generous, 
loving  kindness.  Indeed,  I  do  not  forget 
them;  indeed,  I  am  grateful.  But  I  cannot 
stay  here  any  longer.  I  should  be  miserable 
—  wretched  if  I  stayed.  I  cannot  breathe 
in  this  room  —  in  this  house."  She  rocked 
her  body  as  if  in  pain.  She  would  have  said 
more,  but  — 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Go,  then!"  said  Sir  Peter,  through  set 
teeth. 

Phyllis  ran  from  the  room  and  out  of  the 
house,  bareheaded;  John  snatched  his  hat 
and  stick  in  the  hall  and  overtook  her  as 
she  fled  through  the  iron  grille.  They  ran 
together  a  short'  distance.  Then  Phyllis 
slackened  the  pace  to  a  rapid  walk.  She 
was  breathless,  her  hands  pressed  to  her 
heart;  a  maid  distraught.  Pitiful,  inarticu- 
late little  cries  escaped  her  from  time  to 
time.  John  walked  beside  her,  silently. 
They  passed  through  the  gates  of  the  park, 
and  she  walked  more  slowly.  Slowly,  and 
still  more  slowly  they  wandered,  aimlessly, 
under  the  leafless  trees.  She  turned  to  him 
at  last,  her  lips  blue  with  the  cold. 

"You  must  take  care  of  me  now,  John. 
I  have  no  one  else,"  she  said  quietly. 


WAS  it  Dr.  Johnson  who  remarked  that  one 
great  charm  of  London  is  that  you  may 
walk  in  a  crowded  street,  eating  a  twopenny 
bun,  without  attracting  a  second  glance? 
Or  was  it  Benjamin  Franklin  ?  Not  that  it 
matters. 

On  a  wintry  morning,  in  a  public  convey- 
ance, a  hatless  and  coatless  young  woman 
of  unusual  beauty,  and  a  very  self-conscious 
young  man,  sitting  beside  her,  were  not 
annoyed  by  more  than  a  curious  stare  or 
two. 

John  had  suggested  a  cab. 

"We  must  economize  from  the  very  be- 
ginning," said  Phyllis,  with  a  wan  smile. 

She  blushed  deliciously  when  John 
handed  her  money,  and  she  hurried  into  a 
shop.  Such  a  simple,  brown  hat  she  found, 
73 


OLD  VALENTINES 

a  little  shopworn ;  the  long,  warm  coat  she 
bought  matched  perfectly.  Standing  at  the 
street  corner,  waiting  for  her,  John  counted 
the  money  in  his  pockets;  enough  for 
luncheon,  fares,  and  even  contingencies,  he 
was  glad  to  find.  But  he  thought  with 
satisfaction  of  the  full  quarter's  income  at 
his  lodgings.  When  she  rejoined  him,  John 
looked  her  over  critically. 

"I  suppose  that  is  a  terribly  cheap  coat," 
he  said,  trying  to  remember  other  coats  he 
had  seen  on  her  pretty  figure. 

"  It  is  a  lovely  coat.  I  like  it  very  much," 
replied  Phyllis,  stroking  the  flaps  of  the 
pockets. 

"Well,  it  really  is  becoming,"  John  as- 
sured her.  "So  is  the  hat." 

"I  think  so,  too,"  said  Phyllis.  "And  I 
am  particular  about  hats." 

"  I  would  be  willing  to  wager  five  shillings 
you  never  had  such  an  inexpensive  one 
74 


OLD  VALENTINES 

before,"  said  John.  Phyllis  did  n't  answer 
that;  and  John  added,  "Your  uncle  will 
send  your  pretty  clothes  to  —  to  —  wher- 
ever you  go,"  he  ended  lamely. 

Phyllis  held  up  two  slender  fingers. 

"Two  things  I  did  n't  like  in  one  sen- 
tence," she  admonished  him.  "  First,  Uncle 
Peter  will  send  me  nothing.  Oh,  John,  I 
could  n't,  could  n't  take  anything  from  him 
now.  I  really  could  not."  She  stopped  sud- 
denly. "  I  must  have  my  valentines,  though. 
They  were  my  mother's.  They  will  go  with 
me  wherever —  That  reminds  me  of  the 
second  thing  you  said  I  did  n't  like.  You 
should  not  have  said  —  'Wherever  you  go,' 
but  'Wherever  we  go'!" 

She  smiled  at  him  bravely. 

"Well,  we  will  go  to  lunch  now,"  said 
John,  smiling,  too,  and  making  the  most  of 
the  pronoun.    "It  is  early,  but  we  can  sit 
and  talk  it  all  over." 
75 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Where?"  she  asked,  almost  gayly.  Her 
heart  was  bruised,  but  she  meant  to  forget 
all  that,  and  the  thought  of  a  lunch  with 
John  was  a  very  good  place  to  begin. 

John  took  his  bearings  as  to  restau- 
rants. 

"If  you  could  walk  a  short  distance, 
there  is  Mildmay's,"  he  suggested. 

"I  can  walk  miles,"  she  answered;  but 
she  thought  ruefully  of  her  thin  soles. 

A  white  table  between  them,  a  waitress 
with  rolls,  and  something  hot  in  prospect; 
John  thought  the  time  had  come. 

"But,  seriously,  my  darling,  what  shall 
we  do?  What  is  the  best  for  you?  Shall  I 
take  you  to  the  Nevilles'?" 

Phyllis  looked  blank. 

"To  be  sent  home  in  their  car,  bound 
hand  and  foot,  and  lectured  besides!"  she 
remonstrated. 

"Well,  Mrs.  Thorpe  could  certainly  put 
76 


OLD  VALENTINES 

you  up  for  the  night.  Odd  I  did  n't  think 
of  her  first." 

"John,  dear,"  began  Phyllis,  and  then 
blushed,  for  the  word  had  popped  out  of 
itself.  However,  after  a  moment  she  went 
on  courageously  —  "Did  you  hear  me  say 
'we,'  a  little  while  ago?  We  are  going  to- 
gether, wherever  we  go."  She  hesitated. 
"Don't  you  want  me,  John?"  A  swift 
look  at  his  face,  and  hers  glowed. 

"My  dearest,  dearest  girl."  John's  voice 
expressed  his  earnest  sincerity.  "I  won't 
pretend  to  misunderstand  your  meaning, 
and  I  do  so  long  to  believe  it  possible  that 
my  head  swims.  But — " 

"I  perfectly  hate  'buts,":>  she  inter- 
rupted. She  put  her  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  flashed  a  smile  at  him,  through  her 
arched  fingers. 

"But,  dearest,  you  must  consider  this  se- 
riously. I  want  you  to  think  for  a  moment. 
77 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Need  I  tell  you  I  love  you  more  than  life! 
Only  yesterday  I  scarcely  dared  hope  that 
you  might  be  willing  to  wait  years  for  me 
to  —  to  earn  enough  with  my  pen  to  ask 
you  to  share  my  lot.  To-day  —  the  doors 
of  Paradise  are  opened  wide.  Ah !  my  dear, 
my  dear,  I  am  eager  to  enter,  but  I  fear  for 
you.  I  should  be  taking  advantage  of  your 
helplessness  — " 

"Listen,  John,"  said  Phyllis.  "I  am  not 
the  least  bit  helpless.  There  are  dozens  of 
houses  to  which  I  can  go  and  dozens  of 
friends  who  would  be  glad  to  have  me  come 
to  them.  But  at  every  open  door  there  is 
also  a  finger  pointing  inevitably  back  to 
Uncle  Peter's  house.  And  there  I  shall 
never,  never  go.  So  far  as  your  lot  is  con- 
cerned —  it  is  mine.  For  better  or  for  worse 
John,  dear.  But  I  trust  you,  and  believe 
in  you,  and  think  perhaps  there  is  a  high 
destiny  for  you.  I  want  to  share  in  that, 
78 


OLD  VALENTINES 

too,  if  you  will  let  me,  please.  And  I  can't 
do  so  fully  unless  we  go,  hand  in  hand,  all 
the  way,  together.  I  am  not  dismayed  by 
the  thought  of  doing  without  a  great  many 
unnecessary  things.  And  the  really  vital 
things  I  hope  to  have  more  of  than  ever  — 
with  you.  And  so,  John,  if  you  don't  mind, 
please,  we  will  eat  our  lunch  like  sensible 
young  people,  and  afterward  —  and  after- 
ward —  Now,  John,  I  simply  cannot  say 
that.  You  must  say  that,  you  know.  I 
have  n't  left  much  of  it  for  you  to  say,  but 
that  little  I  insist  upon  your  saying  for  your- 
self." 

Ah!  Valentine  Germain!  pretty,  dead 
Valentine  Germain !  your  daughter  is  won- 
derfully like  you  now. 

John  looked  steadily  into  her  trustful 
eyes;  a  long,  long  look. 

"Then  I  ask  you  to  marry  me  this  after- 
noon, my  dearest,"  he  said  solemnly.  "And 
79 


OLD  VALENTINES 

—  oh!  Phyllis,  I  pray  God  you  may  never 
reproach  me." 

"I  never  shall,  John,"  she  answered. 
"  For  I  honestly  believe  I  am  to  be  the  hap- 
piest and  the  proudest  girl  in  England." 

"Wich  of  you  gets  the  chocolate,  and 
wich  the  tea?"  asked  the  waitress. 

They  were  married  before  three;  it  was 
amazing  how  short,  how  simple,  so  marvel- 
ous an  event  could  be.  John  spent  ten 
minutes  at  the  telephone.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  was  passed  in  the  coldly  official  pre- 
cincts of  Doctors'  Commons.  In  the  Fac- 
ulty Office,  through  an  open  doorway, 
Phyllis  caught  glimpses  of  the  formalities 
incident  to  securing  a  license.  A  clerk  filled 
up  a  printed  form;  John  made  affidavit 
to  the  clerk's  accuracy  of  transcription;  a 
stamp  was  affixed;  a  document  was  blotted, 
examined;  the  dotting  of  an  i  was  attended 
80 


OLD  VALENTINES 

to,  and  the  dot  blotted;  a  bank-note 
changed  hands.  The  license  in  his  pocket, 
John  rejoined  her. 

"We  must  hurry  now,  darling,"  said 
he. 

"Oh,  dear!"  said  Phyllis.  "I  am  glad  to 
hurry  away  from  here.  That  clerk's  face 
was  so  unsympathetic." 

Half  an  hour  after  they  entered  the  dark, 
quiet  church,  the  clergyman,  with  a  cold 
in  his  head,  had  pronounced  them  "bad 
ad  wife." 

They  were  on  top  of  a  motor-bus,  jolting 
cityward,  and  John  was  gayly  addressing 
her  as  Mrs.  Landless,  before  Phyllis  realized 
that  it  was  really  all  over — that  the  irrev- 
ocable step  was  taken  —  that  they  were 
married.  The  whirl  of  her  thoughts  then ! 

At  the  terminus,  John  bought  a  news- 
paper and  scanned  its  advertisements. 
They  started  on  their  search  for  lodgings. 
Si 


OLD  VALENTINES 

His  room  was  in  Whitechapel,  near  Saint 
Ruth's. 

"It  is  up  under  the  roof,  and  looks 
over  the  week's  washing  of  the  submerged 
tenth;  it  won't  do  at  all!"  he  had  declared. 

The  idea  of  a  hotel  impressed  Phyllis 
unpleasantly. 

"Well,  then,"  said  John,  "we  must  look 
for  a  new  tree  in  which  to  build  our  nest." 

How  many  dissonant  bells  jangled  to 
their  touch;  how  many  dreary  hallways 
they  entered  and  stood  waiting  in;  how 
many  steep  staircases  they  climbed;  how 
many  rooms  they  peeped  into  —  one  look 
enough;  how  many  others  they  viewed  at 
greater  length,  but  with  no  more  satisfac- 
tion in  the  end;  a  few,  John  thought,  had 
possibilities,  but  Phyllis  could  not  bear  the 
sight  of  them ! 

The  curious  questions  they  were  asked; 
as  though  the  lodgers  instead  of  the  lodg- 
82 


OLD   VALENTINES 

ings  were  undergoing  inspection.  Most 
of  the  lodging-house  keepers  asked  John 
where  he  was  employed;  some  of  them 
wanted  to  know  if  he  could  give  references. 

"How  cime  you  to  leave  your  last  pi  ice  ? " 
was  one  shrill  question. 

In  utter  weariness  Phyllis  at  last  con- 
sented to  John's  suggestion;  he  would  make 
a  preliminary  survey  and  she  should  be 
called  into  counsel  only  in  promising  cases. 
They  were  few  enough.  She  walked  up  and 
down  monotonous  streets  while  John  was 
indoors ;  to  be  told,  time  after  time,  that 
was  not  the  place  they  sought. 

Even  John  might  have  been  discouraged; 
on  the  contrary,  that  young  man's  chin 
rose  to  his  difficulties.  But  Phyllis's  eyes 
grew  more  and  more  troubled  when  dark- 
ness fell,  and  the  lights  in  windows  reminded 
them  that  they  were  still  homeless. 

Seeking  new  bills,  "To  Let,"  they  found 
83 


OLD  VALENTINES 

themselves  in  a  small  square,  surrounded 
by  houses;  a  fine  neighborhood  in  its  day. 

"Oh  dear,  John,  I  fear  I  can  walk  no 
farther,"  said  Phyllis.  "We  must  ,go  to  a 
hotel  after  all,  though  I  detest  the  idea.  My 
shoes  are  worn  through." 

He  led  her  to  a  bench  in  the  little  square, 
and  kneeling  before  her  took  off  one  shoe, 
and  then  the  other,  and  carefully  fitted  each 
with  a  new  sole,  mgde  from  a  page  of  "The 
Daily  Chronicle." 

"  If  I  fail  as  a  poet  I  shall  be  a  cobbler," 
he  said  to  her  brightly. 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  "My  dearest, 
I  am  so  sorry.  I  have  blundered  through 
this  afternoon,  horribly.  Perhaps  I  should 
have  taken  you  to  my  own  room  at  once, 
poor  as  it  is.  Perhaps  I  should  have  sought 
advice  from  Mrs.  Thorpe.  Perhaps  I  should 
have  insisted  on  a  hotel,  for  a  few  days, 
until  we  could  look  about.  At  least,  we 
84 


OLD  VALENTINES 

might  have  had  a  cab.  I  have  been  most 
inconsiderate.  I  am  so  strong  in  the  new 
hope  and  strength  you  have  given  me  that 
I  have  n't  thought  enough  for  you.  My 
poor,  tired  Phyllis." 

He  held  her  hands ;  his  face  contrite.  She 
was  too  dispirited  for  words,  but  she  patted 
his  hand  softly. 

As  they  sat  there,  John  saw  a  lighted 
shop-window,  not  fifty  yards  distant. 

"Sit  here  and  rest,  darling,  while  I  run 
over  there  and  inquire  for  any  lodgings  in 
this  vicinity.  If  there  are  none,  I  will  call 
a  cab  and  we  will  go  to  a  hotel.  Think  of 
the  beautiful  dinner  we  shall  have.  Our 
wedding  dinner,  dearest!  I  warn  you  I 
mean  to  be  extravagant."  He  leaned  over 
her  and  kissed  her,  and  then  ran  across 
the  street. 

Then  she  allowed  herself  to  cry  for  the 
first  time.  Poor,  sad,  tired  little  bride, 
85 


OLD  VALENTINES 

whose  wedding  day  had  been  so  different 
from  all  her  girlish  dreams  of  it.  She  cried 
quietly,  on  the  bench,  alone,  in  the  dark- 
ness. She  was  cold  and  tired  and  lonely. 

John  came  back  on  the  run,  from  the 
opposite  direction. 

"I  inquired  at  the  bookseller's  shop," 
said  he.  "He  directed  me  to  the  house  in 
which  he  lodges  himself.  He  recommended 
it  so  highly  I  thought  I  would  leave  you 
alone  for  a  few  minutes  longer  and  see  the 
rooms.  Phyllis,  I  really  believe  I  have 
found  what  we  want.  There  are  three 
rooms,  though  one  is  very  small.  There  is 
the  coziest  little  sitting-room,  with  a  fire- 
place and  an  easy-chair.  Adjoining  it  is  a 
smaller  room.  But  the  bedroom  is  large, 
and  has  two  windows.  The  place  is  spot- 
lessly clean.  And  the  woman  who  lets  the 
rooms  is  a  wholesome,  good-hearted  soul ;  I 
am  sure  you  will  like  her.  The  terms  are  a 
86 


OLD  VALENTINES 

little  —  well,  just  a  little  higher;  but  the 
woman  says,  of  course,  that  is  to  be  expected 
—  with  the  view  of  the  square  from  our 
windows." 

John  looked  at  Phyllis  doubtfully.  "Do 
you  think,  dearest,  that  you  could  see 
these  for  yourself?  It  is  n't  far,  and  I  will 
not  ask  ybu  to  look  at  another  place  if  you 
don't  like  this  one." 

She  drew  new  courage  from  his  hopeful- 
ness. They  walked  the  length  of  the  little 
square. 

John  rang.  The  door  opened,  and  a 
motherly  looking  woman  stood  aside  to 
let  them  enter.  Phyllis  stood  directly  below 
a  flaring  gas-jet,  as  she  turned  to  wait  for 
their  conductress. 

The  woman  screamed  and  her  hands 
went  to  her  heart. 

"Valentine  Oglebay!"  she  exclaimed. 

"That  was  my  mother's  name,"  said 
8? 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis.  She  was  too  tired  to  be  surprised, 
even.  The  woman  took  a  step  forward. 

"Your  mother!  Then  you  must  be  little 
Phyllis.  You  don't  remember  — " 

"Farquharson!"  cried  Phyllis.  "Far- 
quharson!  Oh!  dear,  dear  Farquharson." 

They  were  crying  in  each  other's  arms, 
repeating  names  endearingly,  incredulously. 


VI 

JOHN  stood  staring. 

Finally,  Mrs.  Farquharson,  tears  stream- 
ing down  her  kindly  face,  held  Phyllis  away 
from  her  and  looked  at  her  long  and  lov- 
ingly. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  my  deary  dear. 
How  ever  did  you  come  to  find  me?" 

"I  didn't,"  replied  Phyllis.  "John 
found  you.  He  —  we  —  we  are  looking  for 
lodgings.  We  —  we  were  married  this 
afternoon.  We  have  been  hunting  for  rooms 
for  hours  —  and  this  was  the  last  place  — " 
Phyllis  faltered.  She  turned  to  John,  and 
then  to  Mrs.  Farquharson.  "This  is  Mr. 
Landless,  my  —  this  is  my  dear,  dear  old 
Nurse  Farquharson.  She  knew  my  mother 
and  father,  and  she  took  care  of  me 
when  I  was  a  little,  little  girl.  Oh,  John, 
89 


OLD   VALENTINES 

you  cannot  know  how  glad  I  am  to  see 
her!" 

They  shook  hands. 

"I  told  her  she  would  like  you,"  said 
John  to  Mrs.  Farquharson. 

"And  to  think  of  her  being  married," 
said  Mrs.  Farquharson.  "And  coming  to 
my  house  with  her  husband,  looking  for  a 
place  to  live,  and  me  with  three  rooms  all 
ready  for  them  as  soon  as  ever  I  can  get  a 
fire  laid  in  the  grate." 

She  turned  to  Phyllis  again. 

"Just  you  sit  down  here  in  the  warm  hall 
a  minute,  my  deary  dear,"  she  said,  "while 
I  get  —  though  maybe  you  would  like  to 
look  at  them  first.  Yes,  of  course.  Come 
straight  upstairs,  Miss  —  my  dear.  If  you 
decide  to  stay — " 

"Oh,  Farquharson!  How  can  you  sug- 
gest that  we  shouldn't  stay!"  said  Phyl- 
lis. 

90 


OLD   VALENTINES 

"Never  would  I  hint  such  a  thing,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Farquharson.  "But,  of  course, 
there  are  only  the  three  rooms,  and  one 
of  them  small,  to  be  sure,  and  no  others  in 
the  house  unoccupied.  This  way,  —  these 
are  the  rooms,  Miss  —  my  dear.  And  as 
I  says  to  the  young  gentleman  —  your 
husband,  that  is  —  the  sitting-room  is  that 
cozy,  with  the  fire,  and  the  bedroom  is  airy. 
The  view  is  something  pretty,  I  do  assure 
you.  Oh!  my  deary  dear,  my  deary  dear! 
How  ever  did  you  come  to  find  me?" 

It  was  hard  to  tell  whether  Mrs.  Far- 
quharson was  laughing  or  crying.  Phyllis 
sank  into  the  easy-chair  with  a  sigh. 

"I  shall  never  get  up  again,"  she  said  to 
John. 

"Slippers,"  said  Mrs.  Farquharson,  and 
vanished. 

John  kissed  Phyllis  and  tried,  awkwardly, 
to  take  off  her  hat.  He  managed  it  finally, 


OLD   VALENTINES 

and  a  loose  strand  of  beautiful  hair  fell  over 
one  of  her  ears.  She  tucked  it  away. 

"Is  n't  it  too  wonderful  to  be  true!"  she 
said.  John's  heart  was  too  full  for  speech. 
He  turned  away  to  hide  his  working  mouth. 

Mrs.  Farquharson  was  on  her  knees  be- 
fore Phyllis  a  moment  later.  The  slippers 
were  too  large,  but  how  welcome  to  her 
aching  feet.  One  of  her  shoes,  upturned, 
caught  Mrs.  Farquharson's  eye.  She  in- 
spected John's  handiwork;  then  gave  Phyl- 
lis a  startled  look. 

"In  February,  my  dear.  And  on  your 
wedding  day!  How  ever  came  it?  With 
newspapers,  all  wadded  in.  Whatever  's 
happened? " 

"  It  has  all  been  very  sudden,  dear  Far- 
quharson," said  Phyllis.  "  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it  as  soon  as  I  have  rested  a  little.  Oh ! 
It  is  good,  good,  to  be  with  you.  I  am  so 
glad,  so  glad.  Are  n't  you  glad,  John?  Just 
92 


OLD  VALENTINES 

think  —  if  you  had  n't  tried  once  more. 
If  you  had  n't  asked  at  that  little  shop." 

"Shop?"  inquired  Mrs.  Farquharson. 

"The  little  old  bookshop,  at  the  other 
end  of  the  square,"  explained  John. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Rowlandson's.  He  sent  you 
here.  He  would,  to  be  sure.  My  oldest 
lodger,  sir,  and  the  easiest  to  do  for  — 
though  odd.  Here's  Genevieve  with  the 
tea.  Don't  put  the  tray  on  the  sofa,  Gene- 
vieve. On  the  table,  of  course.  Whenever 
will  you  learn  ?  Here,  drink  this,  my  deary 
dear.  It  will  prepare  your  stomach  for 
something  more.  I  am  getting  your  supper 
ready  now  downstairs,  and  the  young 
gentleman's.  There's  a  chop.  Do  drink  a 
little  of  the  tea,  my  dear,  even  if  you  don't 
want  it.  It's  for  your  best.  Do  you  like 
apricots  as  well  as  ever  you  did  ?  Oh,  who- 
ever has  had  the  bringing  of  you  up,  that  I 
should  have  had!  The  many  times  I've 
93 


OLD  VALENTINES 

thought.   And  your  poor  dear  mother  and 
father  both  taken  at  once,  too." 

"I  went  to  my  Uncle  Peter,"  said  Phyl- 
lis. "I  have  lived  there  ever  since." 

"  Sir  Peter  Oglebay  —  your  father's  bro- 
ther. I  might  have  known."  Mrs.  Far- 
quharson  nodded  her  head  vigorously. 
"Though  he  was  terrible  down  on  your — 
To  think  of  that  now!  And  so  you  have 
been  here  in  London  all  these  many  years ! 
And  me  never  to  know!  Deary  me!" 

"We  —  my  uncle  did  everything  to  find 
you,"  Phyllis  assured  her.  "He  even  ad- 
vertised for  you.  I  cried  for  you  very  often 
when  I  was  little,  dear  Farquharson." 

"Did  you,  indeed,  my  dear?"  asked  Mrs. 
Farquharson,  smiling,  and  wiping  her  eyes 
with  her  apron.  "And  advertised  for  me. 
In  the  papers.  Reward  offered  and  no  ques- 
tions asked.  I've  read  them  myself,  but 
never  did  I  think." 

94 


OLD   VALENTINES 

"Oh,  yes.  I  wanted  you  very  badly," 
Phyllis  assured  her  again.  "I  used  to  tease 
Burbage  when  I  was  naughty,  by  telling 
her  you  were  never  cross  with  me." 

"And  who  is  Burbage?"  asked  Mrs. 
Farquharson. 

"  She  is  my  uncle's  housekeeper.  She  was 
very  good  to  me,  too.  But  I  missed  you 
dreadfully.  You  know,  John,  my  mother 
and  father  were  away  from  home  for  weeks 
at  a  time,  and  Farquharson  took  such  care 
of  me." 

"Such  games  as  we  had,"  said  Mrs.  Far- 
quharson, reflectively;  and  then  to  John, 
—  "  She  was  everything  whatever  from 
Mary,  Queen  of  Scots,  to  a  dromedary, 
I  Ve  beheaded  her  many 's  the  time,  and  her 
humps  was  the  pillows  off  her  little  bed.  If 
Genevieve  has  n't  burned  those  chops  to  a 
cinder,  they  must  be  ready,  and  why  ever 
she  does  n't  bring  them  up  I  do  not  know." 
95 


OLD  VALENTINES 

What  a  dainty  supper!  John  did  full 
justice  to  it. 

Mrs.  Farquharson  brooded  over  Phyllis; 
but  she  could  eat  nothing. 

The  kind-hearted  woman  maintained  a 
constant  stream  of  talk,  in  which  lodgers, 
rooms,  chops,  apricots,  and  toast,  and  the 
old  times  were  inextricably  intermingled. 

The  first-floor  front  and  his  wife  had  seen 
better  days;  in  stocks,  they  were.  The  va- 
garies of  Mr.  Rowlandson,  the  bookseller, 
third-floor  front,  the  walls  of  his  rooms  lined 
with  —  what  do  you  think  ?  No,  not  with 
books,  nor  pictures,  but  with  glazed  cases 
containing  old  patch-boxes  and  old  fans. 
Mrs.  Farquharson  had  seen  Mr.  Singleton 
and  Mr.  Leonard  once.  But  the  trio  of 
painters  was  inseparable  no  longer.  Mr. 
Knowles  had  married  their  favorite  model. 
"The  hussy!"  said  Mrs.  Farquharson. 

One  reminiscence  followed  another. 
96 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Ah,  me,"  she  sighed.  "Your  father  and 
mother  was  a  pair  of  lovers  if  ever  there 
was  a  pair.  As  long  as  I  knew  them,  they 
never  had  a  word  —  much  less  words. 
'Pard'  he  called  her.  'What  shall  we  do 
to-day,  Pard?'  he  would  ask  her  of  a  morn- 
ing. She  would  want  him  to  be  at  his  pic- 
tures. 'On  such  a  sunshiny  morning!'  he 
would  say.  And  the  next  day,  maybe,  it 
would  rain.  'You  know  I  can't  paint  these 
dark  days,'  says  he.  And  off  they  would  go, 
on  some  harum-scarum  or  other,  like  a 
couple  of  children.  Like  a  couple  of  chil- 
dren —  and  so  they  ever  were,  too.  Do  you 
mind  my  speaking  of  them?" 

"I  love  it,"  Phyllis  assured  her.  "I  — 
you  know  I  have  had  no  one  with  whom  I 
could  talk  about  my  mother  and  father. 
Uncle  Peter — "  She  could  not  finish  the 
sentence. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  deary  dear,  I  know/'  said 
97 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Mrs.  Farquharson  soothingly.  "Your  mo- 
ther knew  what  he  thought.  Often  and  often 
she  told  me  she  wished  she  could  find  a  way 
to  make  Sir  Peter  not  think  so  hard  of  her. 
'Oh,  Farquharson,'  says  she,  *  he  thinks  I 
snared  Robert.  If  he  only  knew  how  hard  I 
tried  to  refuse  him.'  She  was  wild  for  a 
stage  career  when  first  they  met.  It  grieved 
her  sorely  that  your  uncle  did  n't  know 
the  rights  of  it;  but,  bless  your  heart,  she 
could  n't  bear  the  thought  of  any  one,  high 
or  low,  not  being  good  friends  with  her. 
She  was  that  tender-hearted,  you  would  n't 
believe.  But  along  with  it  as  proud  as  — 
as  —  I  can't  think  of  his  name  —  that 
makes  the  matches.  You  know,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Farquharson  mused  over  her  memo- 
ries. 

"Your  father  was  her  first  love-affair," 
she  resumed.  "  She  was  wrapped  up  in  her 
acting  till  she  met  him.  Her  mother  and 
98 


OLD  VALENTINES 

father  were  both  on  the  stage.  Did  you 
know  that?  Yes,  my  deary  dear,  she  told 
me  a  costume-trunk  was  her  cradle,  and  a 
dressing-room  the  only  nursery  that  ever  she 
knew.  She  hated  to  give  it  all  up,  but  she 
did;  your  mother  loved  your  father  beyond 
all  that  ever  I  saw  or  heard  of,  and  he  wor- 
shiped the  ground  she  walked  on.  Strong 
words,  my  dear,  but  true  as  true." 

It  was  midnight  before  they  knew  it. 
The  dark  circles  under  her  darling's  eyes 
gave  Mrs.  Farquharson  occasion  for  con- 
cern. Genevieve  had  visited  the  bedroom 
with  clean  linen  in  her  arms. 

"  I  will  take  a  short  walk,"  whispered  John 
to  Phyllis. 

Poor  Phyllis.  She  needed  her  old  nurse; 
the  excitement  and  fatigue  had  exhausted 
her  completely. 

Standing  in  the  square,  looking  upward  at 
the  stars,  a  white-faced  poet,  his  thoughts 
99 


OLD  VALENTINES 

unutterable,  at  last  saw  the  lights  in  her 
windows  grow  dim  and  disappear. 

On  the  stairs  he  met  Mrs.  Farquharson. 
Her  voice  was  anxious  as  she  bade  him  good 
night. 

From  the  little  sitting-room  John  could 
see  into  the  bedroom.  The  light  shone  on 
the  face  of  Phyllis  asleep. 

He  sat  watching  the  dying  fire  for  a  long 
while.  Finally  he  rose,  slowly  wound  up 
his  watch,  turned  out  the  gas,  and  lay  down 
on  the  sofa.  He  soon  slumbered  peace- 
fully. 

In  the  gray  dawn  Phyllis  awakened. 
Recollections  slowly  crowded  upon  her 
consciousness.  She  rose  and  stood  by  the 
window,  looking  out  on  the  quiet  square, 
and  at  the  houses,  opposite,  emerging  from 
obscurity  with  the  growing  light.  She 
stepped  to  the  door  and  peeped  into  the 
other  room.  John  lay  on  the  sofa,  sleeping 
100 


OLD   VALENTINES 

soundly,  one  arm  flung  boyishly  over  his 
head. 

The  rooms  were  very  cold.  She  took  the 
coverlet  from  her  bed  and  spread  it  over 
him. 

He  stirred  a  little.  "Thanks,  old  chap," 
he  murmured  sleepily. 

Phyllis  tiptoed  back  to  bed. 


VII 

WITHIN  a  fortnight  their  rooms  were  trans- 
formed. Mrs.  Farquharson  declared  she 
would  not  have  known  them  herself. 

John's  old  room,  dismantled,  yielded  his 
bookshelves  and  his  books ;  his  father's  old 
desk,  a  Sheraton,  and  therefore  a  beauty 
and  joy  forever;  and  his  armchair,  which 
took  its  place  in  a  corner  of  the  cheery 
sitting-room  and  seemed  to  say  —  "Come, 
sit  here,  and  be  comfortable,"  as  naturally 
as  though  it  had  been  established  there  for 
years.  Certainly  it  had  this  advantage 
over  the  other  chairs ;  it  was  so  roomy  John 
and  Phyllis  could  sit  in  it  together;  and 
often  did. 

There  were  photographs  of  his  father  as 
a  young  man ;  and  of  his  mother,  a  flower- 
like  creature,  who  had  faded  like  a  flower, 
102 


OLD   VALENTINES 

leaving  a  fragrant  memory.  Phyllis  gazed 
at  her  picture  with  wistful  eyes;  and  once, 
when  John  was  absent,  held  it  to  her  lips. 

But  Phyllis's  old  valentines  gave  the 
rooms  their  charm.  A  dozen  or  more, 
framed  in  dull  gold,  hung  on  the  walls, 
their  delicate  coloring  softened  by  the 
passing  of  many  years;  their  sentiment  as 
fresh  and  gentle  as  of  yesterday. 

On  the  day  after  her  marriage,  Phyllis 
had  written  this  letter:  — 

DEAR  UNCLE  PETER:  — 

John  Landless  and  I  were  married  yes- 
terday. We  have  found  a  pleasant  place  to 
live,  with  Farquharson,  my  old  nurse.  I 
hope  you  will  try  to  think  of  me  as  kindly 
as  you  can,  and  kindly,  too,  of  John,  whose 
heart  is  pure  gold,  and  all  mine,  as  mine  is 
his.  I  want  you  to  know  I  am  sorry,  even 
when  I  am  happiest,  —  and,  indeed,  Uncle 
103 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Peter,  I  am  happy,  —  sorry  for  the  pain 
my  thoughtlessness  gave  you ;  sorry  for  the 
mischief  that  was  done,  unconsciously, 
because  I  did  not  tell  you,  long  ago,  that  I 
was  learning  to  love  him.  It  would  have 
been  far,  far  better  to  have  told  you ;  I  am 
truly,  truly  sorry.  Some  day,  when  you 
want  me  to,  I  hope  to  tell  you  all  this  much 
better  than  I  can  write  it. 

I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,  Uncle  Peter. 
I  want  my  valentines.  Could  Burbage  put 
them  all  in  the  leather  cases,  and  send  them, 
by  Thompson,  to  Saint  Ruth's?  And, 
please,  I  ask  you  to  send  nothing  else;  just 
the  valentines,  please,  Uncle  Peter. 
Always  lovingly, 

PHYLLIS. 

On  the  following  afternoon,  John  went 
to  Saint  Ruth's  to  tell  the  news,  and  an- 
nounce his  unavoidable  absence  from  the 
104 


OLD   VALENTINES 

Settlement  for  the  month  to  be  devoted  to 
his  book. 

"And  to  you,"  he  said,  as  he  kissed  Phyl- 
lis good-bye. 

"Tell  Mrs.  Thorpe  we  shall  both  be  back 
in  a  month,  eager  to  do  more  than  ever," 
was  her  reply  to  this.  "Tell  her,  please,  not 
to  think  we  are  selfish ;  but  the  little  book 
is  so  important  just  now." 

Phyllis  listened,  smilingly,  to  Mrs.  Far- 
quharson's  gossip  about  her  lodgers. 

"'Never  again,'  he  says  to  me  solemnly, 
and  pointing  at  me  with  his  long  finger. 
'The  keys  I  shall  leave  in  the  cases  as  I  ever 
have,  but  never  again  touch  dust-cloth  to 
my  fans  and  patch-boxes ! '  And  never  have 
I  since  that  day,  which  is  seven  years  if  it's 
a  minute.  He  dusts  them  himself  of  a  Sun- 
day morning.  I  Ve  caught  him  at  it ! "  Mrs. 
Farquharson  picked  a  thread  from  her  skirt, 
and  carefully  wound  it  around  her  finger. 
105 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"  Speaking  of  catching  him  at  it  reminds 
me  of  that  Mrs.  Burbage,"  she  continued. 
She  never  referred  to  her  save  as  "that" 
Mrs.  Burbage;  the  designation  expressed 
anathema.  "I  have  wondered,  did  ever  it 
occur  to  you  whether  Sir  Peter  asked  that 
Mrs.  Burbage  to  take  the  advertisements 
to  the  papers ;  it  being  my  belief  that  if  he 
ever  did  she  never  did.  And  consequently, 
however  could  I  see  them,  and  know  my 
deary  dear  wanted  her  old  nurse?" 

The  whir  of  a  motor,  immediately  below 
the  windows,  caused  Mrs.  Farquharson  to 
look  out. 

"Whoever  is  that  now?  A  man  in  leg- 
gings and  a  middle-aged  woman  in  specta- 
cles. I  never  set  eyes  on  her  before.  He's 
beginning  to  take  the  little  leather  trunks 
out.  Whatever  is — " 

Phyllis's  intuition  was  swift  as  light.  A 
glimpse  from  another  window,  and  — 
106 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"It  is  Uncle  Peter's  car,  Farquharson," 
she  exclaimed.  "The  boxes  are  the  old 
valentines  you  remember  so  well  —  that  I 
sent  for  yesterday.  The  woman  is  — " 

"That  Mrs.  Burbage,  of  course.  She 
found  me  quick  enough  when  she  wanted 
to!" 

Phyllis  was  in  flight  down  the  stairs. 
Mrs.  Farquharson  smoothed  her  hair,  and 
followed  ma j  estically .  They  met  in  the  hall. 
While  Thompson  carried  the  boxes  up, 
Phyllis  introduced  the  rivals.  They  talked 
for  a  few  moments  constrainedly,  surveying 
each  other  as  though  watchful  for  an  open- 
ing. When  the  last  of  the  cases  had  gone 
up  Phyllis  said :  — 

"I  want  to  hear  news  of  my  uncle,  and 
show  Burbage  our  pretty  rooms.  You  will 
excuse  us,  Farquharson,  won't  you?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear,"  she  replied;  then, 
addressing  Mrs.  Burbage —  "Shall  I  light 
107 


OLD  VALENTINES 

the  gas  for  you,  ma'am?  I  see  your  age  is 
beginning  to  tell  on  your  eyes." 

"Oh,  no,  thank  you,  ma'am,"  replied 
Burbage.  "I  can  see  perfectly.  Though 
your  hall  is  uncommonly  dark." 

Both  shots  told.  Phyllis  hurried  Burbage 
upstairs. 

There  was  little  to  learn.  Sir  Peter  had 
not  spoken  her  name  since  she  had  left. 
He  had  given  her  note  to  Burbage. 

"  Carry  out  these  directions  implicitly," 
he  had  said.  But  Burbage  allowed  herself 
latitude;  the  directory  gave  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son's  address  —  and  here,  rather  than  to 
Saint  Ruth's  she  had  brought  the  valen- 
tines —  eager  to  see  her  darling,  —  now  a 
bride. 

Phyllis  chatted  happily  with  her  for  an 
hour.  She  spoke  affectionately  of  her  uncle. 
"  It  will  all  come  out  right  in  the  end,"  she 
concluded. 

108 


OLD   VALENTINES 

Burbage  promised  to  come  often  to  see 
her. 

"My  pretty,"  she  whispered,  as  she  held 
Phyllis's  hand,  in  parting,  "I  warn  you  of 
this  Mrs.  Farquharson.  A  woman  with  eyes 
like  hers  is  not  to  be  trusted." 

The  framed  valentines  were  hung  when 
John  came  home.  Thus  they  were  the  first 
of  their  Lares  and  Penates ;  the  first  of  the 
pretty  things  that  made  a  home  of  lodgings. 

"Ah,  John,  you  have  no  idea  how  I  love 
my  old  valentines,"  said  Phyllis  that  eve- 
ning, as  they  looked  around  the  rooms.  "  I 
love  them  dearly  for  themselves  —  as  well 
as  for  their  association  with  my  mother. 
Are  n't  they  sweet  and  pretty?" 

"Indeed,  they  are,"  said  John  warmly. 
"Don't  they  light  up  the  rooms,  though?" 

And  so,  with  John's  books  and  furniture, 
and  Phyllis's  valentines,  the  rooms  were 
transformed.  "I  wouldn't  know  them 
109 


OLD  VALENTINES 

myself"  was  Mrs.  Farquharson's  oft-re- 
peated comment. 

Of  course  you  have  read  "Old  Valentines, 
and  Other  Poems,"  by  John  Landless ;  that 
is  the  disadvantage  under  which  this  story 
labors.  You  know,  beforehand,  that  the 
little  book  won  instant  hearing;  you  know 
that  "Lyrics"  quickly  followed,  and  the 
favorable  verdict  of  the  critics  whose  good 
opinion  was  most  worth  having.  When  that 
wonderful  epic  —  "London:  A  Poem"  — 
made  its  appearance,  our  poet  was  fairly 
on  the  royal  road. 

But  you  must  pretend  you  don't  know  all 
this;  and  that  "Lyrics"  and  "London"  are 
not,  at  this  moment,  in  plain  sight  on  your 
reading-table.  You  must  forget  that  you 
saw  John's  portrait  in  the  last  "Bookman." 
Unless  you  are  good  at  make-believe,  it  is 
no  fun  at  all.  You  must  know  nothing  of 
no 


OLD  VALENTINES 

the  rosy  glow  on  the  peaks  of  Parnassus,  so 
that  you  may  struggle  with  John  and 
Phyllis  up  the  first,  heart-breaking,  storm- 
swept  steeps. 

We  are  back  in  their  pretty  rooms  now. 
Are  you  there?  Very  well,  then;  we  pro- 
ceed. 

They  had  lived  at  Mrs.  Farquharson's 
for  a  fortnight.  John  worked  steadily  at  his 
desk;  Phyllis  sewed.  Poetry  reads  very 
smoothly  on  a  printed  page;  but  Phyllis 
had  not  realized  that  ten  satisfying  lines  is 
a  fair  morning's  stint;  nor  that  a  little  book 
of  synonyms  is  first  aid  in  emergency  cases ; 
nor  that  one  may  talk  as  much  as  one 
pleases  at  times,  but  must  be  quiet  as  a 
mouse  when  the  pen  is  scratching  away  so 
busily;  she  had  to  learn  that  when  John's 
eyes  were  full  of  anguish  he  was  probably 
at  his  best. 

in 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Phyllis,"  said  John,  one  morning,  look- 
ing up  from  his  writing. 

"Yes,  dear." 

"That's  all  — just  Phyllis,"  he  replied, 
smiling. 

She  beamed  at  him  over  her  embroidery. 
The  pen  resumed  its  slow  progress.  Phyllis 
rocked  happily.  When  the  pen  paused 
again,  she  watched  his  face.  It  welcomed 
speech,  so  — 

"What  word  from  the  publishers  ? "  asked 
Phyllis. 

"They  will  have  none  of  it,"  replied  John. 
"They  all  tell  me  the  verses  have  merit; 
they  all  regret  the  public  taste;  but  —  in 
short,  business  is  business." 

Phyllis  bit  her  thread  in  two.  John  con- 
tinued. 

"  If  I  could  get  the  first  little  book  out,  — 
and  reviewed  in  the  papers  that  count,  — 
I  have  enough  verses  for  a  second,  to  follow 

112 


OLD   VALENTINES 

at  once,  and  catch  the  favoring  breeze;  — 
but  if  there  is  no  first,  how  can  there  be  a 
second?" 

Phyllis  shook  her  head.  The  idiosyncra- 
sies of  the  publishing  trade  were  beyond  her 
comprehension.  How  they  could  refuse 
such  beautiful  —  Well ! 

"I  had  a  proposal  from  Kendall,  Ran- 
some  &  Company  yesterday  afternoon  that 
I  meant  to  have  told  you  about — only  Miss 
Neville's  and  Mark  Holroyd's  coming  to 
spend  the  evening  knocked  it  out  of  my 
head." 

"Was  n't  it  dear  of  them !  Did  n't  Peggy 
look  sweet  in  that  blue  gown?  What  was 
the  proposal,  John?  Any  proposal  is  en- 
couraging, is  n't  it?"  asked  Phyllis. 

"I  suppose  so,"  John  answered,  running 
his  hand  through  his  hair.  "But  this  one 
could  n't  be  accepted  under  the  circum- 
stances. They  offered  to  publish  the  book  if 


OLD   VALENTINES 

I  would  pay  the  cost  of  printing  and  relin- 
quish copyright." 

"The  idea!"  exclaimed  Phyllis. 

"I  laughed  at  it  myself,"  replied  John. 
"I  had  another  reason  for  laughing  than 
the  one  they  knew,  though.  For,  really,  I 
am  so  sure  of  my  little  book  that  I  might 
have  accepted  the  offer  —  if  I  had  the 
money." 

"Would  it  cost  a  great  sum?"  inquired 
Phyllis. 

"Something  less  than  fifty  pounds  for 
the  first  edition;  a  small  edition.  If  there 
were  a  second,  of  course,  they  would  pay  the 
charges,  but  I  should  get  nothing." 

Phyllis  sat  sewing  thoughtfully.  Sud- 
denly John  saw  that  her  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears. 

"  If  there  were  n't  me  to  think  of,  you 
might — "  she  began. 

John  had  her  in  his  arms  in  the  big 
114 


OLD  VALENTINES 

chair  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  it. 
When  her  troubled  heart  was  comforted, 
he  returned  to  his  desk. 

"However,  I  have  been  the  rounds  of  the 
publishers  now.  I  started  with  the  best  and 
I  have  seen  them  all.  I  have  condescended 
to  the  smallest.  I  have  even  tried  the  Pop- 
ulars.  But  it  has  all  been  of  no  use.  Same 
story  everywhere.  l  Marked  ability,  but  we 
regret.' " 

"If  you  had  friends  with  influence — " 
Phyllis  began,  but  John  interrupted  her.' 

"  I  would  n't  if  I  could,  and  I  have  n't 
if  I  would,"  said  he.  "  But  the  fact  is  there  's 
less  of  that  than  you  think.  'Pull'  isn't 
required;  I  can  say  that  even  when  I  am  at 
the  end  of  my  rope.  Books  are  published 
honestly,  on  their  quality;  mine  simply 
has  n't  the  quality  the  public  likes.  It  may 
be  Art  —  but  will  it  sell?  That's  the  ques- 
tion." 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Having  plumbed  the  depths,  John  took 
up  his  pen  again ;  his  chin  resolute  as  ever. 

That  evening  when  Mrs.  Farquharson 
tapped  at  the  door,  John  was  teaching 
Phyllis  chess. 

"Just  in  time,  Farquharson,"  said  Phyllis. 
"  I  am  routed  horse  and  foot  —  by  a  man 
without  a  queen,  too." 

The  chessboard  was  set  aside;  a  chair 
brought  forward;  but  Mrs.  Farquharson 
would  not  sit  down;  she  rarely  would  when 
John  was  present. 

"No,  my  dear,  no.  I  just  dropped  in  for 
a  minute  —  not  to  disturb  ever.  Besides, 
Genevieve's  walking  out  with  her  young 
man,  and  there's  the  bell  to  watch.  No,  I 
just  dropped  in  to  say  that  Mr.  Rowland- 
son  —  the  rooms  over  yours,  Mr.  Landless 
—  Mr.  Rowlandson  says,  'Tell  the  young 
lady  she  may  like  to  go  up  to  my  rooms 
some  morning  when  I  am  not  there  to 
116 


OLD  VALENTINES 

bother  her,'  he  says,  'and  look  at  my  fans 
and  patch-boxes.  They're  pretty,  too,'  says 
he,  'as  pretty  as  her  valentines.'  And  so 
they  are,  my  deary  dear,  and  you  must 
go  up  and  see  them.  Oh,  yes,  he  knows  all 
about  your  valentines.  He  bought  them 
for  your  uncle,  at  your  father's  sale,  and 
a  pretty  penny  they  cost.  More  than 
two  hundred  pounds.  It  seems  your 
uncle  was  bidding  against  some  public 
institution." 

Mrs.  Farquharson  replaced  the  proffered 
chair. 

"Is  the  poetry  book  to  be  out  soon,  sir?" 
she  asked.  "  I  hope  so,  I  am  sure.  I  'm  that 
anxious  to  see  your  name  in  gold  letters  on 
the  cover.  Good-night,  sir.  Good-night, 
my  dear.  Are  you  certain  you  don't  want 
more  coals?  Well,  then,  good-night." 

John  and  Phyllis  had  their  usual  good- 
night talk  by  the  fire. 
117 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"And  so  Mark  Holroyd  and  the  Hon- 
orable Margaret  are  engaged,"  said  John, 
replacing  a  fallen  coal  with  the  tongs. 

Phyllis  put  her  feet  on  the  low,  brass 
fender,  and  tucked  in  her  skirt. 

"Yes,  they  are  engaged,"  she  replied. 
"It  is  to  be  announced  very  soon.  Peggy 
says  it  should  n't  be  called  an  engagement, 
but  rather  a  two-year  probationary  period. 
She  could  hardly  wait  to  tell  me.  The  dar- 
ling !  That  was  why  she  was  so  anxious  to 
help  me  unwrap  the  rug  in  the  little  room." 

An  old  prayer-rug,  with  a  golden  tree  of 
life  in  its  deep  blue  center,  was  the  Honor- 
able Margaret's  wedding  gift;  Mark  sent  a 
coffee  percolator. 

Phyllis  sighed. 

"She  will  have  a  beautiful  wedding,"  she 
said  softly.  "Ah,  John,  you  don't  know 
what  that  means  to  a  girl." 

John  poked  the  fire. 
118 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Suddenly  Phyllis  laughed. 

"How  could  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  you 
about  the  cards?"  she  continued.  "It  was 
so  funny,  and  so  like  Peggy  Neville.  You 
see, — her  card  was  fastened  to  the  rug  with 
a  bit  of  ribbon  —  and  on  it  was  written  — 
'With  love  and  sympathy.'  When  Peggy 
saw  it  she  shrieked.  'Oh,  Phyllis !'  she  said, 
'mother's  cousin,  Caroline  Molesworth,  has 
been  at  the  hospital  for  a  week;  day  before 
yesterday  she  had  her  surgical  operation, 
and  yesterday  I  sent  flowers.  I  wrote  the 
cards  at  home,  —  and  they  got  mixed.  On 
hers  is  written  —  "May  all  your  days  be  as 
full  of  joy  as  these  last  few  days  have 
been!"'" 

In  the  night  Phyllis  found  herself  wide 

awake.    She  lay  quietly  considering  a  new 

thought  that  had  come  to  her,  somehow, 

while  she  slept.  If  she  only  dared !  Oh,  no, 

119 


OLD  VALENTINES 

no!  She  couldn't  ask  him.  And  yet  — 
She  fell  asleep  again  wondering  whether  — 
perhaps,  just  possibly  —  she  could  do  it,  if 
she  kept  her  mind  firmly  fixed  on  John's 
book. 


VIII 

BOOKSHOPS  are  the  most  charming  of  all 
shops  because  they  relate  themselves  so 
intimately  to  their  visitors.  Mr.  Rowland- 
son's  gained  by  its  setting  —  at  the  corner 
of  the  green  square.  Not  a  very  good  place 
for  trade,  you  would  say.  However,  he 
thrived. 

His  shop-window  does  not  differ  from  a 
score  of  others  one  may  see,  on  a  morning's 
walk:  a  shallow  bay-window,  with  small, 
square  panes  of  inferior  glass;  the  familiar 
array  of  old  books  turn  their  mellow  title- 
pages  toward  the  light;  a  window  designed 
for  lingering.  Three  rows,  or  four,  of  books 
—  and  a  few  old  prints  —  may  be  exam- 
ined from  the  front;  these  whet  the  appe- 
tite. But  two  other  rows  are  so  set  in  the 
window  as  to  necessitate  sidelong  inspec- 

121 


OLD  VALENTINES 

tion,  and  tempt  the  observer  to  take  two 
steps  around  the  corner.  Here,  to  be  at  ease, 
one  must  stand  with  one  foot  on  the  first 
of  the  four  stone  stairs  leading  downward 
to  the  door;  stairs  worn  by  the  footfalls 
of  four  generations  of  book-hunters.  Just 
within  the  door  one  sees  an  alluring  stack 
of  books,  the  topmost  sustaining  a  neatly 
printed  sign  —  "Sixpence — your  choice." 

In  short  —  the  foot  once  placed  upon  the 
first  of  these  descending  stairs  returns  not 
to  its  fellow.  A  little  bell  rings,  and  one 
is  inside. 

Against  the  background  of  his  overflowing 
shelves,  with  his  old-fashioned  clothes,  his 
stooping  shoulders,  his  iron-gray  hair,  and 
his  firm,  tender,  and  melancholy  face,  — 
you  will  never  visit  Samuel  Rowlandson's 
shop  without  wishing  to  frame  him  as  he 
stands,  and  set  him  in  the  window,  among 
the  other  rare  old  prints. 

122 


OLD   VALENTINES 

He  must  have  known  you  a  long,  long 
time  to  intrude  a  particular  book  upon  your 
notice;  and  then  with  the  air  of  consulting  a 
connoisseur  rather  than  suggesting  a  pur- 
chase. Yet  he  is  a  shrewd  dealer.  Not  for 
Samuel  Rowlandson  is  the  fairly  marked 
price  on  the  fly-leaf;  nor  even  hieroglyphics 
representing  cost.  A  book  is  worth  what  it 
will  fetch;  and  every  customer's  purchasing 
power  is  appraised  with  discrimination, 
concealed,  indeed,  but  most  effective. 

The  shop  grows  larger  as  your  eyes  be- 
come accustomed  to  the  gloom  of  its  re- 
moter part.  There  are  four  thousand 
books  on  those  overweighted  shelves;  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  books ;  big  folios  and 
little  duodecimos,  ragged  books  and  books 
clothed  by  Riviere  and  Bedford.  Once  he 
thought  a  Roger  Payne  binding  had  found 
its  way  to  the  shop,  an  inadvertent  bargain; 
but,  alas!  the  encyclopaedia  dashed  his 
123 


OLD   VALENTINES 

tremulous  hopes;  years  before  the  date  on 
the  title-page  that  seedy  but  glorious  crafts- 
man had  laid  down  his  tools  forever. 

The  shelves  are  catholic:  Samuel  Pepys, 
immortally  shameless;  Adam  Smith, 
shaken;  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  in  folio 
as  they  should  always  be  found;  Boswell's 
Johnson,  of  course,  but  Blackstone's  "  Com- 
mentaries" also;  Plutarch's  "Lives"  and 
Increase  Mather's  witches;  all  of  Fielding 
in  four  stately  quarto  volumes;  Sterne, 
stained  and  shabby;  Congreve,  in  red 
morocco,  richly  gilt;  Moliere,  pocket  size, 
in  an  English  translation;  Gibbon  in  sober 
gray;  Burton's  "Anatomy"  — 

"The  only  book,"  says  Mr.  Rowlandson, 
"that  ever  put  me  to  sleep  two  hours  before 
I  wished." 

Here  is  Addison's  "Spectator,"  its  near 
neighbor  Steele;  the  "Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine," a  long  run  this,  but  not  complete; 
124 


OLD  VALENTINES 

rare  Ben  Jonson,  rubbed  at  the  joints; 
Spenser's  "Faerie  Queen,"  with  marginal 
notes  in  a  contemporary  hand;  the  "History 
of  the  Valorous  and  Witty  Knight  Errant," 
in  sable  morocco,  with  armorial  decorations ; 
Tacitus  in  all  his  atrocity,  Herbert,  all 
gentleness. 

Overweighted  shelves !  Overweighted,  in- 
deed, for  the  books  stand  double-breasted. 
One  must  never  assume  a  volume  is  not  in 
stock  because  it  is  not  in  sight,  though  Mr. 
Rowlandson  himself  does  not  always  know. 

"Otway,"  he  ponders,  in  response  to 
your  inquiry;  "let  me  think.  H'm.  Yes, 
yes,  to  be  sure,  behind  the  set  of  '  English 
Men  of  Letters.'  Not  there?  H'm.  Well, 
I  must  have  sold  him,  then.  Oh,  no.  You 
will  find  him  in  that  row  of  old  dramatists, 
behind  the  —  yes,  there!  A  little  to  the 
left —  Ah!  of  course.  Old  Otway,  and  a 
very  nice,  sound  copy,  too." 
125 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Not  that  all  the  books  in  Mr.  Rowland- 
son's  shop  are  old;  his  clientele  is  too  diver- 
sified. The  moderns  are  there,  too.  Thack- 
eray and  Dickens;  Meredith  and  Carlyle; 
Tennyson;  gallant  old  Sir  Walter  in  various 
editions. 

"Lockhart's  'Life,'"  he  would  say,  han- 
dling a  volume  from  one  hand  to  the  other. 
"The  saddest  true  story  in  the  world"; 
and  then,  brightening,  "Two  pound,  ten." 

Mr.  Barrie  is  always  handsomely  repre- 
sented on  Mr.  Rowlandson's  shelves.  He  is 
one  of  the  few  authors  Mr.  Rowlandson  will 
recommend  to  casual  customers.  He  sug- 
gests "Margaret  Ogilvy:  A  Memoir.  By 
her  Son."  "But  are  you  sure  it  is  by 
Barrie?"  —  they  ask.  He  has  sold  more 
than  four  hundred  copies.  Once  a  year  for 
several  years  he  has  written  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Barrie's  publishers:  "Why  don't  you  bring 
out  his  Plays?"  he  pleads.  "Think  of  the 
126 


OLD  VALENTINES 

thousands  of  people  in  the  provinces  and  in 
America  who  can't  see  them  on  the  stage." 

Mr.  Rowlandson  treasures  a  half-promise 
from  Mr.  Hewlett  that  he  will  write  a  novel 
around  the  picturesque,  if  unheroic,  figure 
of  Francois  Villon.  "I  am  keeping  his  let- 
ter," says  Mr.  Rowlandson,  "to  insert  in 
the  book  —  when  it  is  published." 

Of  De  Morgan  he  observes,  senten- 
tiously : "  Too  late."  Joseph  Conrad's  novels 
he  shelves  next  to  Stevenson's,  significantly. 
He  has  a  high  regard  for  Arthur  Christo- 
pher Benson's  essays.  "But  does  the  man 
think  I  have  as  much  shelving  as  the 
Museum?"  he  growls. 

But  these  newer  books  are  the  minority. 
The  composed,  brown  calf  bindings  give 
the  shop  its  tone,  —  and  its  faint  odor,  too; 
a  cultivated  taste,  the  liking  for  that  odor 
of  old  books. 

Mr.  Rowlandson's  desk  is  in  the  alcove 
127 


OLD  VALENTINES 

at  the  back  of  the  shop;  and  in  its  lowest 
drawer,  oftener  than  elsewhere,  his  gray 
cat,  Selima,  stretches  her  lazy  length. 

On  a  bright,  crisp  morning,  nearly  a  week 
after  Phyllis  had  lain  awake  thinking, 
Mr.  Rowlandson  sat  at  this  desk,  looking 
through  his  post,  which  consisted  chiefly  of 
book-catalogues .  Having  laid  these  aside,  he 
opened  a  bulky  parcel  the  post  had  brought. 
It  proved  to  be  a  thick,  square,  black  vol- 
ume; a  most  unattractive  book.  But  Mr. 
Rowlandson  viewed  it  with  interest. 

"My  me!  My  me!"  he  exclaimed,  and 
read  the  title-page;  "' Proceedings  of  the 
British  Engineering  Society  for  the  Year 
1848.'  So,  you  have  finally  come  to  light, 
old  hide-and-seek!  Sir  Peter  Oglebay  will 
be  pleased.  From  Brussels,  of  all  the  un- 
likely —  Well,  well,  I  must  remember  to 
cancel  the  advertisement  in  the  'Athe- 


naeum.'" 


128 


OLD   VALENTINES 

He  picked  up  a  blue  saucer  from  the  floor 
and  stood,  for  a  moment,  watching  Selima's 
quick  paw,  engaged  in  ablutions. 

"Over  your  ear  it  goes,"  said  he.  "That 


means  customers." 


He  began  his  morning's  work  with  a 
feather  duster.  Occasionally  he  straight- 
ened a  row  of  books.  The  bell  tinkled,  and 
Phyllis,  in  her  brown  coat  and  hat,  stood, 
hesitant,  at  the  door.  She  carried  a  par- 
cel. 

"Mr.  Rowlandson?"  she  asked  timidly. 

"My  name,"  he  replied.  "And  you  are 
Mrs.  Landless.  I  have  seen  you  before, 
although  you  have  not  seen  me." 

"I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  you, 
though,  from  Farquharson,"  said  Phyllis. 
"And  yesterday  I  took  advantage  of  your 
invitation  to  see  the  pretty  things  in  your 
rooms ;  I  want  to  thank  you  for  the  oppor- 
tunity; they  are  lovely  old  things." 
129 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Mrs.  F.  took  you  up,  did  she?  Well, 
they  are  pretty,  and  I  am  glad  they  pleased 
you.  A  foolish  fancy,  Mrs.  Landless;  a 
foolish  fancy  for  an  old  man  like  me.  But 
I  am  very  fond  of  my  fans  and  patch- 
boxes." 

"I  should  think  you  would  love  them," 
said  Phyllis.  "Where  in  the  world  did  you 
find  them  all?" 

"Oh,  in  all  sorts  of  odd  nooks.  They 
turn  up  when  one  is  looking  for  them. 
Everything  does,  Mrs.  Landless.  That  is 
one  of  the  queer  things  about  collecting.  I 
could  tell  you  some  curious  stories.  Your 
old  valentines,  now.  My  me!  The  attics 
of  the  Continent  must  have  been  ransacked 
for  them.  It  is  very  interesting.  But  the 
scattering  of  a  collection  is  the  sad  part; 
saddest  when  books  are  dispersed.  Only 
the  other  day  I  saw  an  autograph  letter 
of  De  Quincey's,  —  the  opium-eater,  you 
130 


OLD  VALENTINES 

know;  it  was  written  to  the  auctioneer  who 
sold  his  library.  It  seems  De  Quincey  had 
his  son  buy  a  few  of  the  books  at  his  own 
auction.  The  poor  old  fellow  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  parting  with  them,  I  fancy, 
when  it  came  to  the  pinch." 

Mr.  Rowlandson  waited  for  Phyllis  to 
say  something.  Poor  Phyllis !  It  was  even 
more  difficult  than  she  had  expected.  She 
was  tempted  to  retreat;  but  she  thought  of 
John's  book. 

"A  remarkable  coincidence,  —  your  find- 
ing your  way  to  Mrs.  F.'s,"  continued  Mr. 
Rowlandson.  "And  a  very  happy  one  for 
her." 

"For  me,  too,"  said  Phyllis.  "We  have 
you  to  thank  for  that." 

"Well  —  in  a  way."  Mr.  Rowlandson 
nodded.  "It  is  strange  what  fortuitous 
circumstances  seem  to  direct  the  current 
of  our  lives.  I  say  they  seem  to,  Mrs.  Land- 


OLD  VALENTINES 

less,  for  it  may  be  only  seeming.  Perhaps 
all  is  planned  for  us,  even  when  our  deci- 
sions rest  on  the  toss  of  a  penny." 

A  gentle  pressure  against  her  skirt  at- 
tracted Phyllis's  attention.  Selima's  arched 
back  invited  her  caress. 

"Is  n't  that  an  unusual  name  for  a  cat?" 
she  asked,  when  told  of  it. 

Mr.  Rowlandson's  eyes  twinkled  and  he 
began  to  quote,  straightway.  His  voice 
was  pleasant  to  hear:  — 

1  'T  was  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dy'd 
The  azure  flowers,  that  blow; 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind, 
The  pensive  Selima  reclin'd 
Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

"Thomas  Gray,  the  poet,  Mrs.  Landless. 

The  cat  is  historic.  She  was  one  of  Horace 

Walpole's   pets    at   Strawberry   Hill,    his 

country-seat,  when  Gray  visited  him  there. 

132 


OLD   VALENTINES 

Gray's  first  book  was  printed  privately  by 
Horace,  who  had  ample  means  and  recog- 
nized genius.   The  book  is  scarce  now;  it 
fetches  five  pounds  and  upward." 
He  resumed  the  quotation :  — 

"Still  had  she  gaz'd;  but  midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide, 
The  Genii  of  the  stream: 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue 
Thro'  richest  purple  to  the  view 
Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

"The  hapless  Nymph  with  wonder  saw: 
A  whisker  first  and  then  a  claw, 
With  many  an  ardent  wish, 
She  stretched  in  vain  to  reach  the  prize. 
What  female  heart  can  gold  despise? 
What  Cat's  averse  to  fish? 

"Your  husband  doubtless  knows  the 
poem,  Mrs.  Landless.  Mrs.  F.  tells  me  he 
writes  poetry  himself.  Some  one  once  said 
of  Gray  that  no  other  poet  entered  the  por- 
tals of  fame  with  so  slender  a  volume  under 
133 


OLD  VALENTINES 

his  arm.  He  wrote  very  little,  Mrs.  Land- 
less, but  he  polished  every  letter  of  every 
word  until  the  lines  were  flawless  as  the 
facets  of  a  diamond." 

"Did  puss  get  the  fish?"  asked  Phyllis, 
stooping  to  stroke  Selima's  sleek,  gray  side 
again. 

"No,"  replied  Mr.  Rowlandson.  "'The 
slipp'ry  verge  her  feet  beguil'd,  she  tumbled 
headlong  in.'  But  cats  have  nine  lives,  you 
know. 

"  Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mew'd  to  ev'ry  wat'ry  god 
Some  speedy  aid  to  send. 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirr'd, 
Nor  cruel  Tom,  nor  Susan  heard. 
A  Fav'rite  has  no  friend. 

"Now  comes  the  moral,"  he  continued. 
"Poets,  in  those  days  realized  their  obliga- 
tion to  society:  to  tell  it  something  for  its 
own  good." 

134 


OLD   VALENTINES 

His  eyes  twinkled  again;  bright  blue  they 
were;  friendly  eyes,  Phyllis  thought. 

"  From  hence,  ye  Beauties,  undeceived, 
Know,  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retriev'd, 
And  be  with  caution  bold. 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes, 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize; 
Nor  all  that  glisters,  gold." 

Mr.  Rowlandson  concluded,  smiling. 
Phyllis  returned  his  smile.  The  task  before 
her  was  still  difficult,  but  she  felt  she  had 
known  this  dear  old  man  a  long,  long  time. 
She  took  the  plunge. 

"Mr.  Rowlandson,  I  came  in  to  thank 
you  for  letting  me  see  your  patch-boxes  and 
fans;  and  to  thank  you,  also,  for  having 
directed  Mr.  Landless  to  Farquharson's 
house.  But  there  was  something  else,  — 
too."  She  caught  her  breath  prettily,  in 
that  quick  way  of  hers.  "  It  is  a  —  a  matter 
of  —  of  business." 

135 


OLD  VALENTINES 

He  bowed  slightly,  and  awaited  the  ex- 
pression of  her  wish.  "I  shall  recommend 
something  of  Barrie's;  or  else  'Lorna 
Doone,' "  he  reflected. 

"May  I  be  seated?"  asked  Phyllis. 

"My  me !  My  me ! "  exclaimed  Mr.  Row- 
landson.  "Here  is  a  chair.  I  beg  your  par- 
don, Mrs.  Landless."  He  seated  himself 
on  the  third  step  of  the  convenient  lad- 
der, leaning  against  the  high,  book-laden 
shelves. 

"You  cannot  imagine  the  nature  of  my 
errand,"  began  Phyllis.  It  was  dreadfully 
hard  to  go  on.  Her  eyes  were  brimming, 
but  they  should  not  overflow  if  she  could 
help  it. 

Mr.  Rowlandson  looked  at  the  parcel  in 
her  lap;  and  then  at  her  face;  and  then  at 
the  parcel  again.  She  was  not  the  first 
embarrassed  visitor  he  had  seen  —  nor  the 
twenty-first. 

136 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Shall  I  untie  this  for  you?"  he  asked 
gently. 

Phyllis  nodded;  she  could  not  speak. 

About  twenty  of  the  prettiest  valentines 
were  in  the  parcel.  Mr.  Rowlandson  laid 
them  on  a  little  table  and  looked  through 
them  quietly,  while  Phyllis  recovered  her 
composure. 

"May  I  see  if  I  can  save  your  feelings 
a  little?"  his  pleasant  voice  said  finally. 
"Mrs.  Farquharson  has  told  me  of  your — 
your  quarrel  with  Sir  Peter.  A  pity;  a  great 
pity.  And  so,  perhaps  I  can  guess  the  rest. 
The  profession  of  poetry,  inspiring  as  it  is, 
is  not  —  not  exactly  remunerative;  not  — 
not  in  a  large  way.  No,  I  fancy  the  returns 
are  not  what  you  would  call  —  well,  say, 
generous.  Things  are  not  going  quite  so 
smoothly  and  easily  for  you  as  you  —  that 
is,  as  they  should  for  two  young  people  who 
have  just  started  life  together.  And  so  it 
137 


OLD   VALENTINES 

occurred  to  you  that  these  old  valentines 
might  be  sacri  —  sold,  to  help,  a  little." 

He  paused;  Phyllis 's  handkerchief  was  at 
her  eyes. 

"Ah,  yes,"  he  added,  "I  feared  that  was 
it." 

He  gazed  thoughtfully  out  of  the  window 
before  he  continued :  — 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  my  dear  young  lady. 
I  am  really  very  sorry.  But  I  find  it  neces- 
sary to  confine  my  purchases  strictly  to 
books.  My  me!  Yes,  strictly  to  books.  If 
you  had  a  few  books,  now,  that  you  had 
ceased  to  care  for,  I  might  allow  you  some- 
thing, eh?" 

"I  have  only  the  valentines,  Mr.  Row- 
landson,"  said  Phyllis.  "It  was  very  silly 
and  wrong  for  me  to  come  to  you.  I  can 
see  that  now.  Of  course,  you  only  buy  and 
sell  books." 

"Except  when  commissioned  by  cus- 
138 


OLD  VALENTINES 

tomers,"  said  Mr.  Rowlandson.  "An 
invariable  rule.  If  I  could  break  it  for  any 
one,  I—" 

"You  have  been  very  kind,"  said  Phyllis, 
rising.  "  So  kind  that  I  think  I  cannot  leave 
you  under  a  misapprehension.  Mr.  Land- 
less's  income  is  quite  sufficient  for  our  mod- 
est needs."  A  sudden  thought  made  her 
heart  beat  rapidly.  "  Oh,  Mr.  Rowlandson ! 
You  must  not  think  he  knows  I  am  here! 
Although,  of  course,  I  meant  to  tell  him  if — 
if  I  had  been  successful." 

She  hesitated  again,  and  then,  with  a 
little  appealing  gesture,  went  hurriedly  on. 

"I  think  I  should  be  quite  frank  with 
you.  Mr.  Landless  has  a  book  of  poems  — 
I  mean  —  poems  enough  to  make  a  book. 
But,  although  he  has  tried  everywhere,  he 
cannot  find  a  publisher  who  is  willing  to 
undertake  his  little  book.  It  is  such  a  very 
little  one,  too.  One  firm  of  publishers 
139 


OLD   VALENTINES 

offered  to  issue  it  if  he  would  pay  the  cost, 
amounting  to  about  fifty  pounds.  They 
wanted  the  copyright,  too,  but  they  have 
yielded  that  point.  Farquharson  told  me 
you  said  that  my  uncle  paid  nearly  two 
hundred  pounds  for  my  valentines  when  — 
at  the  time  of  my  father's  sale;  and  I 
thought,  perhaps  —  perhaps  —  Do  you 
see?  I  brought  a  few  of  the  prettiest  ones 
to  show  you.  I  thought  you  might  have 
forgotten  how  pretty  they  are.  I  want  so 
badly  to  have  John's  book  published,  be- 
cause he  is  certain  to  succeed  if  only  this 
first  little  book  can  be  brought  out." 

The  bookseller  made  no  reply.  He  sat  on 
the  step  of  the  ladder,  gazing  absently  out 
of  the  window,  over  Phyllis's  head.  t 

Be  careful,  Samuel  Rowlandson,  you  old 
sentimentalist,  with  your  faded  old  patch- 
boxes  and  tattered  old  fans.    You  very 
140 


OLD  VALENTINES 

nearly  said  something  then,  quite  out  of  the 
line  of  trade.  Fortunately  you  thought  it 
over,  for  a  minute  or  two,  while  Phyllis 
turned  her  pretty  eyes  away,  to  hide  the 
tears  that  filled  them.  Be  careful,  Samuel 
Rowlandson,  or  you  will  say  it  now,  as  she 
tries  to  smile  at  you,  with  the  corners  of 
her  sweet  mouth  trembling.  Be  care  — 
It  is  of  no  use;  he  will  say  it. 

"I  have  thought  of  a  way  I  might  be  of 
service  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Rowlandson 
meditatively.  "You  see  —  it  is  not  as 
though  I  did  not  know  the  value  of  that 
collection  of  valentines.  They  are  worth 
one  hundred  pounds,  at  the  lowest  figure. 
Now  —  if  you  would  not  take  offense,  and 
you  should  not,  I  am  sure,  when  no  offense 
is  meant;  I  might  offer  to  lend  you  —  say, 
fifty  pounds,  or  half  their  lowest  value, 
accepting  the  valentines  as  security,  and — " 
141 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis's  face  lighted  eagerly ;  then  clouded 
again. 

"But,  Mr.  Rowlandson,"  she  objected, 
"that  would  n't  be  —  quite — you  know — 
businesslike,  would  it  ?  I  should  n't  like  to 
do  anything  that  John  would  feel  was  not 
quite  regular  and  proper." 

Mr.  Rowlandson  swallowed  something 
in  his  throat. 

"  I  should  make  it  very  businesslike,  in- 
deed, by  asking  you  to  sign  a  note;  drawn 
in  the  strictest,  legal  terms,"  he  said  gravely. 
"And  I  should  charge  you  interest,  at  the 
rate  of  five  per  cent,  payable  half-yearly; 
on  the  appointed  day." 

Phyllis  considered  his  face  with  serious 
eyes ;  Mr.  Rowlandson  slowly  repeated :  — 

"Five  percent;  payable  half-yearly;  on 
the  appointed  day." 

"It  really  sounds  quite  —  quite  business- 
like, and  regular,"  she  said.  "Are  you 
142 


ARE  YOU  CERTAIN  YOU  CAN  SPARE 


SO  LARGE  A  SUM  ". 


OLD  VALENTINES 

certain  you  can  spare  so  large  a  sum?  — 
without  the  slightest  inconvenience?" 

"Quite  certain,"  said  Mr.  Rowlandson; 
and  then  added,  "I  always  have  a  little 
ready  money  laid  by  —  waiting  for  a  really 
safe  investment  —  like  this  one  —  at  five 
per  cent." 

Half  an  hour  later  Phyllis  shook  hands 
with  the  old  bookseller.  She  had  an  after- 
thought. 

"A  few  of  the  valentines  are  framed. 
Does  that  make  any  difference?  And,  tell 
me,  Mr.  Rowlandson,  how  can  they  be 
taken  from  our  rooms  and  delivered  at 
your  shop?" 

"Well,  now,"  said  Mr.  Rowlandson, 
pondering,  "I  am  so  much  afraid  of  fire  in 
the  shop  it  would  really  be  a  favor  to  me 
if  you  would  let  them  remain  where  they 
are — for  the  present;  for  the  present,  at 
least." 

143 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis  shook  hands  again.  The  little 
bell  tinkled.  She  was  gone.  In  her  purse 
were  five  ten-pound  notes.  In  her  heart 
was  a  glad  song. 

Through  the  shop-window,  Mr.  Rowland- 
son  watched  her  cross  the  street  swiftly. 
Then  he  turned.  The  valentines  lay  on  the 
table,  where  she  had  left  them,  —  samples 
of  the  wares  she  brought  to  market.  He 
wrapped  them,  tied  the  parcel  neatly,  and 
carried  it  back  to  his  desk.  The  square, 
black  volume  labeled  "Proceedings  of  the 
British  Engineering  Society"  caught  his 
attention.  He  stared  at  it  for  some  mo- 
ments. Then  his  blue  eyes  twinkled. 


IX 

THE  copper  coffee  percolator  bubbled 
genially  on  the  snowy  dinner  table.  John 
and  Phyllis  were  seated.  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son  set  the  soup  tureen  before  him,  and 
hovered  near.  In  the  small  grate  a  fire 
blazed  cheerfully;  the  firelight  gleamed  on 
the  fine  mahogany  and  ivory  inlay  of  the 
Sheraton  desk.  There  lay  John's  manu- 
script, —  returned  this  afternoon  from  Ox- 
ford, with  the  stereotyped  politeness  that 
was  so  disheartening. 

Phyllis's  suppressed  excitement  gave  her 
cheeks  their  color;  John  feigned  higher 
spirits  than  the  occasion  warranted;  he 
made  a  point  of  eating  his  soup;  Phyllis 
tasted  hers. 

Mrs.  Farquharson  served  the  roast  beef 
and  Yorkshire  pudding  t  (her  specialty), 
145 


OLD  VALENTINES 

received  due  plaudits,  and  withdrew.  John 
attacked  the  dinner;  Phyllis's  fork  toyed 
with  her  greens.  The  all-important  subject 
was  not  mentioned  until  Genevieve  had 
cleared  the  table.  Phyllis  passed  John  a 
small  cup  of  black  coffee. 

"Well,  Phyllis,"  he  said,  "Byrne,  the 
Dublin  publisher,  remains  to  us.  Oxford 
declines  Cambridge  verses." 

Then  Phyllis,  blushing  like  a  rose,  laid  in 
his  hand  the  five  ten-pound  notes.  He  looked 
at  her  with  perplexed  eyes. 

"'"Old  Valentines,  and  Other  Poems," 
by  John  Landless,  will  appear  shortly,' "  she 
fictitiously  quoted.  She  had  read  such  an- 
nouncements, weekly,  in  his  "Academy." 

"Oh,  John,  those  horrid  publishers  won't 
retract  their  offer,  will  they?" 

"My  darling  girl,  where  did  you  get  this 
money?" 

"I  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  John,  dear; 
146 


OLD  VALENTINES 

but  first  answer  my  question  ?  There  is  n't 
any  doubt,  is  there?  The  book  can  be  pub- 
lished now?" 

"Why  —  no;  or  rather  —  yes,"  he  said 
slowly.  "If  the  money  is  really  ours,  to  do 
with  as  we  please,  —  even  to  embark  on 
so  wild  an  adventure  as  a  book  of  poems. 
I  can't  conceive  how  you  came  by  it, 
though,  dearest." 

John  held  the  ten-pound  notes  in  his 
hand;  he  looked  at  them  now,  as  if  half 
surprised  to  find  them  still  there. 

Then  Phyllis  told  him  of  her  call  at  Mr. 
Rowlandson's  shop ;  she  remembered  every 
word  of  the  conversation;  and  came  out 
especially  strong  on  the  rigid  regularity  of 
the  transaction;  the  signed  note,  and  the 
five  per  cent,  payable  half-yearly,  on  the 
appointed  day.  John's  face  was  a  study. 

"Oh,  Phyllis!  Phyllis!"  he  said  softly, 
when  she  had  finished.  "You  would  have 
147 


OLD  VALENTINES 

sold  your  valentines  —  that  you  love  so 
dearly!  the  old  valentines  that  are  entwined 
with  your  memories  of  your  mother.  You 
would  have  sold  them !  Forme!" 

Phyllis  smiled  happily  at  him  and  gave 
him  both  of  her  hands,  across  the  little  din- 
ner table.  When  he  could  trust  his  voice, 
he  said,  — 

"I  am  confident  of  my  book.  If  I  were 
not,  of  course,  I  could  n't  let  you  do  this, 
darling;  dear  as  it  was  of  you  to  think  of 
it,  —  and  to  execute  it  so  cleverly — so  very 
cleverly.  Old  Rowlandson  is  a  brick." 

"He  is  a  very  shrewd  man  of  business," 
said  Phyllis,  looking  at  John  with  misgiv- 
ings. "He  always  has  a  sum  of  ready 
money  laid  by,  for  perfectly  businesslike 
investments." 

"Of  course,"  he  reassured  her. 

He  knew  he  could  meet  the  interest  on 
Phyllis's  note.  As  to  the  principal  —  well, 
148 


OLD   VALENTINES 

if  worst  came  to  worst  he  would  be  justi- 
fied in  breaking  his  promise  to  his  father 
that  he  would  never  borrow  on  his  expect- 
ations. Justified!  John  could  almost  see 
his  father's  smile  of  approval. 

They  sat  in  the  big  armchair  together, 
and  read  the  poems  to  be  included  in  the 
little  book. 

"  If  I  succeed  in  my  profession  I  shall  owe 
it  all  to  you,"  said  John  to  Phyllis;  and, 
when  she  would  have  made  remonstrance, 
he  added,  —  "Ah,  my  dear,  I  like  to  have 
it  so." 

At  the  same  hour,  that  evening,  Sir  Peter 
sat  before  his  library  fire.  An  open  maga- 
zine lay  on  his  knee,  pages  downward.  He 
held  an  unlighted  cigar  in  his  hand.  He 
stared  moodily  into  the  glowing  coals. 
There  were  new,  sad  lines  in  his  stern 
face. 

149 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Burbage  entered.  "Mr.  Rowlandson  to 
see  you,  sir.  A  very  particular  matter,  sir, 
he  says." 

Sir  Peter  rose  slowly  when  Mr.  Row- 
landson was  shown  into  the  room.  Under 
his  arm  were  three  parcels. 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Rowlandson,"  said 
Sir  Peter.  "How  have  you  been  since  we 
met  last?  H'm.  It  must  be  two  years,  or 
longer." 

"Thank  you.  I  have  enjoyed  very  good 
health,  Sir  Peter.  Yes,  it  is  all  of  two  years. 
I  hope  you  are  quite  well,  sir." 

"Fair;  fair,"  said  Sir  Peter. 

"We  do  not  get  younger  as  we  grow 
older,"  observed  Mr.  Rowlandson.  He  laid 
two  of  the  parcels  on  the  big  table,  under 
the  reading-lamp,  and  proceeded  to  untie 
the  other. 

A  smile  flickered  across  Sir  Peter's  face; 
he  liked  the  old  bookseller's  sturdy,  inde- 
150 


OLD  VALENTINES 

pendent  ways.  He  had  been  dealing  with 
him  for  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

"  My  lad  failed  me  to-day,"  Mr.  Rowland- 
son  explained,  "and  as  I  had  an  old  print 
of  Charterhouse  to  be  delivered  to  a  cus- 
tomer, not  far  from  here,  I  thought  I  would 
bring  you  something  that  came  this  morn- 
ing —  a  book.  A  book  for  which  you  have 
waited  a  long  time." 

Sir  Peter  drew  his  eyeglass  from  his 
pocket,  and  straightened  the  heavy,  black 
silk  cord. 

"Well,  well ! "  said  he,  when  Mr.  Rowland- 
son  handed  him  the  book,  opened  at  the 
title-page,  with  a  little  air  of  triumph. 
"The  'Proceedings'  for  1848.  This  volume 
completes  my  set.  It  has  given  you  a  good 
bit  of  trouble,  eh?"  He  leafed  it  through, 
and  examined  one  of  the  plates  with  in- 
terest. 

"Oh,  nothing  to  speak  of,"  replied  the 


OLD  VALENTINES 

bookseller,  rubbing  his  hands  together  with 
satisfaction,  nevertheless. 

Sir  Peter  drew  a  check-book  from  a 
drawer;  the  amount  was  named. 

"Take  a  chair,  Rowlandson,"  said  Sir 
Peter.  The  check  was  written.  Mr.  Row- 
landson folded  it  precisely  and  put  it  into 
his  pocketbook.  They  sat  for  a  moment  or 
two  without  speaking.  If  the  bookseller 
was  expected  to  take  his  departure,  Sir 
Peter  was  too  courteous  to  say  so. 

"Will  you  drink  a  glass  of  sherry?"  he 
asked,  and  touched  a  button,  near  the  fire- 
place. The  sherry  was  served.  The  old 
bookseller  squinted  through  his  glass  at  the 
light. 

"About  the  same  date  as  the  ' Proceed- 
ings,' or  thereabouts?"  he  remarked  in- 
terrogatively. 

Sir  Peter  nodded.  "Fifty-two.  A  choice 
year." 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"I  was  growing  a  great  lad,  then,"  com- 
mented Mr.  Rowlandson.  "You  have  the 
advantage  of  me  by  several  years,  I  fancy." 

"I  shall  not  see  sixty  again,"  said  Sir 
Peter;  after  a  pause  he  added,  —  "I  hope 
your  trade  is  good;  but  everything  is  going 
to  the  devil,  and  I  assume  the  bookselling 
business  goes  with  the  rest.  The  radicals 
are  in  the  saddle  —  and  driving  headlong 
to  destruction." 

"I  remember  an  aunt  of  mine,  many 
years  ago,  who  had  fears  for  her  country," 
was  Mr.  Rowlandson's  rejoinder.  "She 
stopped  taking  in  the  county  paper,  and 
depended  on  'The  Religious  Weekly'  for 
news,  the  rest  of  her  days.  She  said  there 
were  no  signs  of  change  in  that.  Old  Aunt 
Deborah!  My  me!  But  the  bookselling 
trade  does  very  well,  thank  you,  Sir  Peter. 
The  magazines  are  the  only  retarding  in- 
fluence." 

153 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Mr.  Rowlandson  moved  one  of  the  par- 
cels on  the  table  a  little  nearer  to  him  and 
slyly  loosened  the  string. 

"Occasionally  I  do  a  bit  of  business  a 
little  out  of  my  line,"  he  continued.  "This 
morning,  for  example,  I  made  a  deal  that 
promises  a  profit  —  a  very  pretty  profit. 
Now  that  I  come  to  think,  it  might  be  of 
interest  to  you  to  hear  of  it.  It  was  a  deal 
in  old  valentines ;  I  recall  you  once  bought 
a  collection." 

Sir  Peter  started. 

"These  old  valentines  were  brought  to 
the  shop  by  a  young  woman  in  reduced  cir- 
cumstances. She  did  not  want  to  sell  them, 
I  fancy.  She  seemed  rather  fond  of  them." 
Mr.  Rowlandson  sipped  his  sherry;  he  lin- 
gered over  it.  "Yes,  I  should  say  she  was 
rather  fond  of  them.  Well,  —  that  is  n't 
my  affair.  I  advanced  some  money  on 
them;  just  enough  to  tide  over  the  present 
154 


OLD  VALENTINES 

difficulty.  Of  course,  she  and  her  young 
husband — " 

Sir  Peter  looked  up  quickly;  he  had  been 
gazing  into  the  fire.  Mr.  Rowlandson's  face 
was  placid. 

"She  and  her  young  husband  will  want 
more  money,"  he  continued.  "Yes,  they 
will  certainly  want  more  money.  And  when 
the  proper  time  comes  —  "  He  hesitated 
as  though  at  a  loss  for  the  right  words. 
"Down  I  come  on  them  —  pounce!  and  sell 
out  the  valentines  —  and  take  my  profit." 
Mr.  Rowlandson  took  another  sip  of  sherry 
with  evident  enjoyment. 

Their  eyes  met.   Sir  Peter  scowled. 

"She  —  was  —  my  niece?"  he  inquired. 

"Well,  bless  my  soul!"  pondered  Mr. 
Rowlandson,  as  though  the  thought  struck 
him  for  the  first  time.  "They  may  have 
been  the  same  valentines  you  bought  at 
that  sale  —  whose  was  it?  —  so  many  years 
155 


OLD  VALENTINES 

ago.  Of  course,  they  may  have  been.  I  have 
a  few  of  them  with  me  — "  He  reached 
for  the  parcel  with  the  loosened  string. 

"You  know  they  are  the  same,"  said  Sir 
Peter  savagely.  "  Let  this  farce  end  at  once. 
You  should  be  ashamed,  Rowlandson,  to 
seek  your  shabby  profit  in  the  helplessness 
of  a  misguided  child,  ignorant  of  the  world 
—  and  its  hard,  rough  usage.  I  am  surprised 
that  you  would  do  it  —  but  that  you  should 
tell  of  it  —  even  boast  of  it,  amazes  me. 
However  —  trade  blunts  a  certain  delicacy 
of  feeling  that  — " 

Sir  Peter  gave  the  bookseller  a  sharp  look. 
Then  he  added,  — 

"  I  see  your  purpose  in  coming  here  now. 
You  calculated  shrewdly.  Well  —  you  were 
right.  I  will  pay  you  the  sum  advanced  to 
her." 

Whatever  emotion  Mr.  Rowlandson  ex- 
perienced he  concealed. 
156 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Sir  Peter  opened  his  check-book  again, 
and  dipped  his  pen. 

"How  much  did  you  say?"  he  asked. 

"The  amount  advanced  was  fifty 
pounds,"  said  Mr.  Rowlandson  mildly. 

"  Fifty  pounds ! "  exclaimed  Sir  Peter. 

Mr.  Rowlandson  held  his  wine-glass  to 
the  light  again,  and  looked  through  it  with 
half-closed  eyes. 

"Fifty  pounds,"  he  quietly  repeated, 
"and  took  her  note,  with  interest  at  five 
per  cent.  I  could  have  made  it  six  as  well 
as  not,  she  wanted  the  money  so  badly." 

Sir  Peter  turned  his  back  on  the  book- 
seller; the  pen  busied  itself  with  the  check. 
A  moment  later  it  was  offered  to  him. 

"Thank  you,  Sir  Peter.  My  interest  in 
this  transaction  is  not  for  sale."  Mr.  Row- 
landson spoke  in  a  low  tone,  firmly. 

"  But  I  say  my  niece  shall  not  be  indebted 
to  you!  Not  one  penny !" 
157 


OLD   VALENTINES 

Sir  Peter's  fist  came  down  on  one  of  the 
parcels  lying  on  the  table.  There  was  a 
crash  of  broken  glass.  Mr.  Rowlandson's 
eyes  twinkled  merrily. 

"That  is  the  Charterhouse  print,"  said 
he.  "My  customer  will  be  disappointed.  It 
was  promised  for  this  evening." 

The  trivial  incident  cooled  Sir  Peter's 
wrath. 

"  I  insist  on  your  taking  the  check,  Row- 
landson,"  he  said  sternly.  "You  will  un- 
derstand it  is  an  impossible  situation.  My 
niece  is  not  under  the  necessity  of  seeking 
aid  from  strangers.  She  knows  that  all  I 
have  is  hers.  That  I  would  — "  He  stopped 
abruptly. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mr.  Rowlandson,  lean- 
ing forward.  "  Let  us  talk  about  her  —  and 
her  young  poet.  What  an  upstanding,  fine, 
frank  lad  he  appears  to  be.  Do  you  think 
he  has  great  talent?" 
158 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"I  do  not  know  that  he  has  any  talent 
whatever!"  replied  Sir  Peter  angrily.  "I 
know  he  stole  my  niece  from  me;  the 
puppy!" 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mr.  Rowlandson 
gently.  "That  was  wrong.  Wrong,  indeed. 
And  I  suppose  you  had  showed  him  clearly 
that  by  proceeding  openly  he  had  a  fair 
field  to  win  her,  too?" 

Sir  Peter  set  his  teeth.  The  old  bookseller 
repeated  his  question :  — 

"You  did  not  discourage  the  lad,  I  am 
sure?  He  knew  he  had  a  chance,  eh?" 

"I  must  decline  to  discuss  that  with  you, 
Rowlandson." 

"  Chut !  Chut ! "  murmuredMr.  Rowland- 
son.  "We  are  just  two  old  fellows  jogging 
toward  the  grave  together,  even  if  you  are 
a  knight,  and  I  am  a  bookseller.  Come,  now, 
Sir  Peter,  tell  me  all  about  it.  It  will  do 
you  good.  I  will  wager  you  have  been  eating 
159 


OLD  VALENTINES 

your  heart  out,  for  a  month,  in  this  great, 
lonely  house,  with  no  one  to  whom  you  could 
talk  of  your  sorrow.  Come,  come,  Sir  Peter." 
Mr.  Rowlandson  rose.  "Do  not  twenty- 
five  years  of  honest  dealing  with  you  entitle 
me  to  a  little  of  your  confidence?" 

Sir  Peter  stood  silently  by  the  fireplace, 
his  back  turned  to  the  old  bookseller.  Mr. 
Rowlandson  set  his  empty  wine-glass  care- 
fully on  the  table,  and  then  drew  from  their 
paper  the  valentines  Phyllis  had  left  at  the 
shop. 

"I  read  an  essay  of  Mr.  Benson's,  last 
night,  —  and  one  bit  comes  to  me  now," 
he  said.  "The  essay  opens  with  an  old 
French  proverb,  'To  make  one's  self  be- 
loved is  the  best  way  to  be  useful.'  Then 
the  essayist  goes  on  to  say  that  this  is  one 
of  the  deep  sayings  which  young  men,  and 
even  young  women,  ignore;  which  middle- 
aged  folk  hear  with  a  certain  troubled  sur- 
160 


OLD  VALENTINES 

prise;  and  which  old  people  discover  to  be 
true,  and  think,  with  a  sad  regret,  of  oppor- 
tunities missed,  and  of  years  devoted,  how 
unprofitably,  to  other  kinds  of  usefulness. 
We  expect,  like  Joseph  in  his  dreams,  says 
Mr.  Benson,  that  the  sun  and  moon  and 
the  eleven  stars,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
sheaves,  will  make  obeisance  to  us.  And 
then,  as  we  grow  older  the  visions  fade. 
The  eleven  stars  seem  unaware  of  our  exist- 
ence, and  we  are  content  if,  in  a  quiet  corner, 
a  single  sheaf  gives  us  a  nod  of  recognition." 

Mr.  Rowlandson  smiled  pleasantly,  and 
patted  the  old  valentines  under  his  hand. 

"And  then,"  he  continued,  "the  essayist 
says,  we  make  further  discoveries  that  give 
us  pain;  that  when  we  have  seemed  to  our- 
selves most  impressive,  we  have  only  been 
pretentious;  that  riches  are  only  a  talis- 
man against  poverty;  that  influence  comes 
mostly  to  people  who  do  not  pursue  it,  and 
161 


do  not  even  know  they  possess  it;  and  that 
the  real  rewards  of  life  have  fallen  to  simple- 
minded  and  unselfish  people  who  have  not 
sought  them.  I  fear  I  have  not  quoted  the 
essay  quite  accurately.  I  had  a  wonder- 
ful memory,  once.  It  fails  —  it  fails.  But 
it  is  very  prettily  put,  in  the  book,  and  of 
course  it  is  all  quite  true." 

Mr.  Rowlandson  smiled  again,  at  Sir 
Peter's  back.  He  turned  the  valentines 
over,  one  at  a  time :  — 

"My  me!  My  me!"  he  mused,  aloud. 
"Think  of  all  the  old  loves,  of  bygone  years, 
these  represent.  School-boy  and  school- 
girl loves — most  of  them,  probably;  spring- 
time loves.  The  perfume  will  always  linger 
in  these  poor,  faded  leaves.  You  never  mar- 
ried, Sir  Peter,  did  you  ?  Nor  I;  nor  I.  My 
me !  My  me !  I  remember  a  girl  —  when  I 
was  twenty;  in  Hertfordshire  —  my  old 
home.  Bessy  was  her  name.  She  had  the 
162 


OLD  VALENTINES 

softest  brown  hair  —  in  a  thick  braid.  She 
wore  pink-checked  gingham.  My  me! 
She  married  a  farrier,  fifty  years  ago." 

Mr.  Rowlandson  bent  over  one  of  the 
valentines,  to  read  the  verses,  finely  en- 
graved, beneath  a  spray  of  blue  forget-me- 
nots  :  — 

"Wilt  thou  be  mine? 

Dear  love,  reply, 

Sweetly  consent,  or  else  deny. 

Whisper  softly;  none  shall  know. 

Wilt  thou  be  mine? 

Say  aye,  or  no." 

He.looked  up,  smiling  still,  and  went  on, — 

"I  fancy,  Sir  Peter,  you,  too,  have  your 

memories;  you  can  recall  some  sweet  face 

of  your  youth,  for  which  you  would  have 

thought  the  world  well  lost;  you  can  bring 

back  the  memory  of  some  fragrant  day 

when  you  and  she  looked  forward  with 

bright  hopes  to  happy  years  that  never 

were  to  be.   A  golden  day;  a  golden  day." 

163 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Sir  Peter  still  stood  by  the  fireplace, 
silent. 

"And  now  this  dear  girl  of  yours  —  your 
niece  —  has  strayed  away  from  you,  with 
the  boy  of  her  heart !  But,  how  willingly,  — 
how  gladly,  she  would  come  back  to  you, 
and  be  yours  again  —  as  well  as  his,  if  you 
only  opened  your  arms  for  her  —  and  said 
the  right  words  of  welcome  to  her  —  and  to 
him.  She  would  come  back  and  renew  your 
faith  in  youth,  and  hope,  and  love,  and  all 
the  beautiful  things  of  this  old  earth — • 
which  we  shall  leave  so  soon ;  so  soon,  that 
every  lost  day  should  be  mourned.  Ah, 
yes !  I  am  sure  she  waits  only  for  the  wel- 
coming words." 

Mr.  Rowlandson  shook  his  head,  slowly, 
as  he  concluded,  — 

"I  am  proud  for  myself,  and  sad  for  you, 
that  I  should  be  the  one  to  launch  his  little 
book;  the  little  book  for  which  she  was 
164 


OLD  VALENTINES 

willing  to  sell  her  precious  valentines.  The 
little  book  may  not  set  the  Thames  afire, 
but  —  ah !  how  the  thought  of  it  has  kin- 
dled their  young  hearts." 

Sir  Peter  turned  from  the  fireplace  and 
walked  the  length  of  the  long  library;  then, 
slowly,  back  to  the  table  again. 

"You  can  take  the  check  now,  Rowland- 
son,"  he  said,  brokenly;  "I  shall  go  to  her 
—  and  bring  them  home  to-morrow." 

He  dropped  into  his  chair,  and  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands;  Mr.  Rowlandson 
turned  to  the  fireplace.  He  drew  from  his 
pocketbook  the  note  Phyllis  had  signed, 
and  held  it  in  the  grate  until  it  blazed. 
Then  he  puckered  his  mouth,  curiously,  as 
if  trying  to  whistle.  When  he  faced  Sir 
Peter  again,  his  blue  eyes  twinkled. 

"You  owe  me  a  shilling  for  a  new  glass 
for  my  Charterhouse  print,"  said  he. 

Ten  minutes  later,  when  Mr.  Rowland- 
165 


OLD  VALENTINES 

son  left  the  house,  Burbage  opened  the 
door.  He  carried  a  parcel  that  clinked, 
as  he  stepped  out,  briskly. 

"Will  you  require  anything  further,  Sir 
Peter?"  asked  Burbage. 

"Yes.  Have  Miss  Phyllis's  little  study- 
room,  and  the  two  adjoining  bedrooms 
made  ready,  Burbage.  My  niece  and  her 
husband  are  coming  home  to-morrow." 


X 

As  John  lay  between  sleep  and  waking, 
the  next  morning,  he  was  conscious  that  in 
a  moment  he  would  capture  an  elusive, 
happy  thought. 

He  had  it!  The  book  could  now  be  pub- 
lished ! 

While  he  dressed  he  sang  an  ancient  bal- 
lad, at  the  top  of  his  voice,  to  an  air  he  im- 
provised. 

"  Phillida  was  a  fair  maide 
As  fresh  as  any  flower; 
Whom  Harpalus  the  herd-man  praide 
To  be  his  paramoure. 

"Harpalus  and  eke  Conn, 
Were  herd-men  both  ysere; 
And  Phillida  would  twist  and  spinne, 
And  thereto  sing  ful  clere. 

167 


OLD   VALENTINES 

"Phyllis!"  cried  John.  "Can  you  hear 
in  the  bedroom?  I  sing  of  thee!" 

"I  thought  her  name  was  Phillida,"  said 
Phyllis,  setting  the  bedroom  door  ajar. 

"Phillida  is  Old  English  for  Phyllis,"  he 
explained. 

"Oh!  "said  Phyllis. 

"  But  Phillida  was  al  to  coye, 
For  Harpalus  to  winne; 
For  Corin  was  her  only  joye, 
Who  forst  her  not  a  pinne. 

"  How  often  would  she  flowers  twine ! 
How  often  garlants  make 
Of  cowslips  and  of  columbine; 
And  all  for  Corin's  sake. 

"  Harpalus  prevayled  nought, 
His  labour  all  was  lost; 
For  he  was  farthest  from  her  thought, 
And  yet  he  loved  her  most. 

"Phyllis!    I  say,  Phyllis!"  cried  John, 
working  his  hairbrushes  alternately.    "I 
am  Corin.  Who  was  Harpalus?" 
168 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"You  flatter  yourself,  sir,"  replied  Phyl- 
lis. "I  am  pining  for  Harpalus." 

"Tell  me  his  last  name,  then,  that  I  may 
seek  and  slay  him!"  said  John. 

Between  stanzas,  John  forgot  the  air,  but 
he  improvised  anew,  and  sang  on,  regard- 
less. 

"'Oh,  Harpalus!'  thus  would  he  say; 
Unhappiest  under  sunne! 
The  cause  of  thine  unhappy  daye, 
By  love  was  first  begunne. 

" '  But  wel-a-way !  that  nature  wrought 
Thee,  Phillida,  so  faire: 
For  I  may  say  that  I  have  bought 
Thy  beauty  al  to  deare.'  " 

"Cheer  up,  Harpalus!"  Phyllis  waved 
her  hand  through  the  half-open  doorway. 
"Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady!" 

"He  is  too  far  gone,"  said  John.  "Be- 
sides, I,  Corin,  have  nine-tenths  of  the  law 
on  him. 

169 


OLD   VALENTINES 

* '  0  Cupide,  graunt  this  my  request, 
And  do  not  stoppe  thine  eares.'" 

The  song  ceased  while  John  tugged  at  his 
collar.  When  the  button  finally  slipped  in, 
he  muttered :  — 

"There  is  a  musical  line  for  you;  'And  do 
not  stoppe  thine  eares.'  I  would  rather 
have  written  that  line  than  take  Quebec. 

* '  O  Cupide,  graunt  this  my  request, 
And  do  not  stoppe  thine  eares, 
That  she  may  feel  within  her  breste 
The  paines  of  my  dispaire.' " 

John  ended  upon  a  mournful  quaver. 

"Phillida  has  pangs  of  a  different  sort, 
thank  you,"  said  Phyllis,  coming  into  the 
sitting-room.  "Pangs  of  hunger.  Good- 
morning,  Genevieve.  Is  breakfast  served? 
Yes,  indeed,  it  is  a  beautiful  morning." 

"Heartless   creature!"   said  John.    He 
was  putting  on  his  coat  now. 
170 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"  Good-morning,  fair  Genevieve.  Wags 
the  world  well  with  you?  M-m-m.  Does 
n't  the  bacon  smell  good  ?  " 

"  Poor  Harpalus,"  said  Phyllis,  pouring 
tea.  "  I  was  very  fond  of  Harpalus." 

John's  eyes  were  mischievous. 

"Why  did  n't  you  propose  to  him,  then  ? " 
he  asked,  accenting  the  second  pronoun. 

Phyllis  threatened  him  with  a  buttered 
muffin. 

"John  Landless !  I  shall  not  speak  to  you 
again  for  —  ten  minutes." 

It  was  the  jolliest  breakfast.  Mrs.  Far- 
quharson's  bacon  was  always  crisp;  she 
could  tell  a  strictly  fresh  egg  as  far  as  she 
could  see  it;  if  you  had  tossed  one  of  her 
muffins  into  the  air  it  would  have  floated 
out  of  the  open  window.  "Tell  her  I  said 
so,"  said  John  to  little  Genevieve. 

It  is  a  pity  we  know  so  little  of  Genevieve. 
One  has  an  uneasy  sense  of  having  neg- 
171 


lected  her.  Well  —  her  young  man  loved 
her;  and  that  is  enough  for  Genevieve. 

John  stuffed  the  manuscript  into  his 
greatcoat  pocket. 

"Oh,  dear,  if  I  could  only  wish  myself 
invisible  for  an  hour  and  go  with  you  to  the 
publishers,"  said  Phyllis.  "It  does  n't  seem 
possible  to  wait  until  afternoon  to  hear 
what  they  say." 

John  reflected. 

"You  were  going  to  Saint  Ruth's  this 
morning,  were  n't  you?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  shall  be  there  the  whole  morning. 
I  don't  believe  one  of  those  blessed  babies 
will  remember  me.  I  have  a  little  shopping 
to  do,  too." 

"Why  not  do  your  shopping  about 
eleven;  meet  me  at  Mildmay's,  for  lunch- 
eon, at  one;  and  we  will  'bus  over  to  Saint 
Ruth's  together,  and  make  an  afternoon  of 


it." 


172 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis  kissed  him. 

"What  a  perfectly  delightful  plan!"  she 
exclaimed.  "How  shall  I  find  Mildmay's? 
Oh!  John,  dear;  how  much  has  happened 
since  then." 

"No  regrets  yet?"  he  asked,  searching 
her  eyes. 

She  put  her  hands  on  the  lapels  of  his 
coat. 

"Not  even  one  tiny,  little  regret,"  said 
Phyllis. 

As  he  ran  down  the  stairs,  however,  she 
called  after  him. 

"Oh,  John !  I  forgot.  I  have  one  regret." 

"What  is  it?  "he  asked. 

"Harpalus"  —  whispered  Phyllis,  lean- 
ing over  the  banister;  and  kissed  her  hand 
to  him. 

Phyllis's  truthful  eyes  had  not  hidden 
from  John,  this  morning,  or  ever,  that  her 
heart  was  often  saddened  by  thoughts  of 
173 


OLD  VALENTINES 

her  uncle.  She  knew  his  way  of  life  so  well; 
could  tell,  at  any  hour,  what  he  was  prob- 
ably doing.  She  could  picture  his  lonely 
evenings.  Alas,  she  knew  his  pride;  and  her 
own;  John's,  too.  She  often  thought  of  her 
letter  to  him,  with  its  hint  of  reconciliation ; 
she  wondered  if  she  should  have  said  more. 
Then  his  cruel  words  about  her  mother  — 
As  often  she  concluded  she  had  said  all 
there  was  to  say.  And  she  would  turn  her 
thoughts  elsewhere,  so  that  the  bitter 
remembrance  might  not  spoil  the  sweetness 
of  these  days. 

John  waited  for  her  at  the  entrance  to 
Mildmay's.  The  moment  she  saw  him  she 
knew  all  was  well. 

As  they  went  in  she  nudged  him. 

"To  the  left,  John.  I  want  to  sit  at  our 
little  table." 

The  same  waitress,  too;  —  what  smiles! 
Phyllis  had  chocolate  because  she  liked 
174 


OLD  VALENTINES 

chocolate;  but  John  must  have  tea  — 
because  he  had  it  before. 

He  told  her  of  the  interview  with  the 
publishers;  the  little  book  would  appear  in 
April;  May  at  the  latest. 

The  top  of  the  motor-bus,  of  course. 

From  the  crossing  where  they  alighted 
one  should  take  the  street  to  the  right  to 
Saint  Ruth's.  John  turned  to  the  left,  at 
once. 

"  I  should  never  have  forgiven  you  if  you 
had  n't,"  said  Phyllis,  as  they  started 
eagerly  down  the  mean  street,  in  which 
noisy  trams  threatened  the  lives  of  ragged, 
venturesome  children.  Here  was  the  very 
place!  How  slowly  they  had  walked  there, 
while  he  told  her  of  his  love.  How  long  ago 
it  seemed.  Phyllis's  hand  found  its  way 
into  John's  pocket  —  and  was  welcomed 
there. 

They  got  to  Saint  Ruth's,  finally.  Dr. 
175 


OLD   VALENTINES 

Thorpe's  greeting  was  cordial;  Mrs.  Thorpe 
kissed  Phyllis  affectionately.  The  men 
went  to  the  warden's  office;  Mrs.  Thorpe 
took  Phyllis  to  her  room.  They  had  a  long 
talk.  Phyllis  found  Mrs.  Thorpe  could  be 
plain-spoken  as  well  as  kind. 

"You  did  wrong,  dear  girl,"  she  said, 
with  her  arms  around  her.  "I  know  how 
hard  it  was  to  hear  him  utter  those  terrible 
untruths;  but  you  should  have  been  more 
patient.  Nothing  he  said  could  injure  any 
one  —  least  of  all  your  mother,  who  is  now 
where  there  is  no  misunderstanding  —  and 
no  pain.  Your  wounded  heart  impelled 
you  to  a  mad  act,  dear  girl ;  but  your  pride 
has  kept  you  in  the  wrong.  John  Landless 
is  a  dear  fellow  —  and  Donald  thinks  he  is 
a  true  poet.  I  have  laughed  at  him  until  he 
is  shy  about  mentioning  his  'profession'  to 
me.  It  is  possible  for  you  to  be  very  happy. 
Soften  your  heart,  dear  girl,  and  you  will 
176 


OLD  VALENTINES 

find  the  truest  happiness  in  the  happiness 
of  your  uncle.  Your  mother  would  be  the 
first  to  tell  you  to  go  to  him  and  comfort 
his  loneliness  —  if  she  could.  The  best  joys 
of  life  come  to  us  through  self-surrender." 

Phyllis  laid  her  head  in  Mrs.  Thorpe's 
lap  and  had  a  good  cry;  then  she  felt  better. 

"Promise?"  asked  Mrs.  Thorpe,  smiling. 

"No,  I  won't  promise,"  said  Phyllis.  "I 
could  n't  promise  now.  But  I  will  try." 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Thorpe,  "let's  go 
and  see  the  babies.  There  are  some  new 
ones  since  you  were  here;  but  one  wee  mite 
is  gone,  forever." 

Phyllis  sat  on  the  floor  among  the  babies, 
and  played  with  them,  until  her  cheeks 
were  rosy  and  her  golden  hair  disheveled. 
Between  romps  she  told  Mrs.  Thorpe  that 
John's  book  would  soon  be  published. 

"Well,  that  is  good  news!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Thorpe.  "Donald  will  be  so  happy  to 
177 


OLD  VALENTINES 

hear  of  that.  It  is  remarkable  that  he  should 
have  a  book  published  so  soon.  Poems,  too." 

"Yes,  it  is  remarkable,"  replied  Phyllis 
demurely.  "But  then,  John's  talent  is 
remarkable." 

Meanwhile,  in  the  warden's  office,  Dr. 
Thorpe  sat  at  his  desk  and  John  sat  on  it, 
and  swung  his  long  legs.  He  told  him  about 
the  book. 

"By  Jove!  I  congratulate  you,  with  all 
my  heart,"  said  Dr.  Thorpe  warmly.  "You 
will  let  me  know  the  first  day  it  is  on  sale.  I 
shall  wish  to  buy  a  copy." 

"Buy  a  copy!"  John  demurred.  "Well, 
upon  my  word!  You  and  Mrs.  Thorpe  will 
receive  a  copy,  affectionately  inscribed  by 
the  author;  the  first  copy  off  the  press  — 
the  second,  I  should  say." 

Dr.  Thorpe  grinned. 

"Let  me  buy  it,  John,"  he  said.  "I  shall 
go  from  one  bookshop  to  another,  and  in 
178 


OLD  VALENTINES 

each  I  shall  say,  —  'What!  You  have  n't  a 
copy  of  John  Landless's  book !  The  sensa- 
tion of  the  hour!  The  book  London  is  so 
eager  to  read  that  the  presses  can't  turn 
them  out  fast  enough!  The  book  — '" 

John  threw  his  cap  at  him.  They  looked 
at  each  other  in  the  abashed  way  of  men 
between  whom  there  is  deep  affection . 

"Your  publisher's  telephone  wires  would 
be  hot  for  an  hour  with  orders,"  Dr.  Thorpe 
concluded. 

"You  should  be  a  man  of  business,"  said 
John.  "If  you  were  a  publisher  I  should 
have  had  an  easier  time." 

"Nonsense!  You  had  little  or  no  trou- 
ble— "  began  Dr.  Thorpe. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Doctor,"  said  John. 
"I  had  failed,  and  then  Phyllis  pulled  the 
strings.  I  can't  tell  you  how,  though.  That 
is  a  secret." 

"I  am  prepared  to  believe  anything  of 
179 


OLD  VALENTINES 

her.    How  buoyant  and  beautiful  she  is. 
By  the  way  —  anything  from  Sir  Peter?" 

"Not  a  word.  She  wrote  him  a  note, 
asking  for  her  collection  of  valentines.  They 
were  her  mother's,  and  she  wanted  them. 
He  sent  the  valentines,  but  no  reply  to  her 
note." 

"Poor  old  buffer,"  said  Dr.  Thorpe.  "Of 
course,  he  misses  her  dreadfully." 

"I  should  think  he  would;  and  she  misses 
him,  too.  I  would  be  glad  to  see  them  good 
friends  again  if  —  if  I  need  n't  be  put  in  a 
false  position.  He  is  —  disgustingly  rich, 
you  know."  John  hesitated.  He  looked  at 
the  floor,  and  traced  the  pattern  of  the  car- 
pet with  his  stick.  "He  called  me  a  sneak 
—  and  ordered  me  out  of  the  house.  But  I 
can  afford  to  forgive  that.  It  was  horribly 
sudden  for  the  poor  old  chap  —  and  —  all 
that." 

Dr.  Thorpe's  eyes  were  moist. 
1 80 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"I  meant  to  look  into  your  spiritual  state, 
later,"  he  said.  "But  I  see  it  is  n't  neces- 
sary." 

When  the  four  of  them  met,  in  the  hall, 
it  was  understood  that  John  and  Phyllis 
would  resume  their  work  at  Saint  Ruth's. 

"Nothing  like  it  to  keep  your  sense  of 
relative  values  normal,"  said  Dr.  Thorpe  to 
John. 

Mrs.  Thorpe  stood  with  her  arm  around 
Phyllis. 

"Saint  Ruth's  neighbors  will  be  glad  to 
see  you  again,  dear  girl.  Did  I  tell  you  what 
old  Mrs.  Lester  said  to  me?  You  remember 
her  poor  hands,  all  twisted  with  rheuma- 
tism; and  yet  what  beautiful  needlework 
she  does.  She  said,  'I  should  like  to  make 
her  a  pretty  handkerchief,  for  a  wedding 
gift.  Do  you  think  she  would  care  for  it?" 

Mrs.  Thorpe  had  been  looking  through 
the  open  doorway. 

181 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Here  comes  trouble,  Donald,"  she  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

John  and  Phyllis  glanced  back  as  they 
walked  out. 

Dr.  Thorpe  was  shaking  hands,  heartily, 
with  a  big,  sodden  fellow,  in  shabby  clothes, 
his  virile  face  marred  by  excesses ;  the  frail 
little  woman  with  him  looked  up  at  him 
with  a  world  of  anxious  love  in  her  eyes; 
and  then  Mrs.  Thorpe  led  her  away,  talk- 
ing cheerily. 

All  the  way  home  John  discoursed  on 
Art.  Phyllis  drank  it  in.  »She  thought  him 
a  wonderful  being. 

"The  trouble  with  these  literary  chaps  is 
that  they  revolve  in  a  circle,"  he  declared, 
posing  securely  on  his  new  pedestal.  "They 
have  their  writing  rooms,  all  strewn  with 
carefully  disarranged  paraphernalia;  and 
they  have  their  clubs,  where  they  meet  only 
each  other  and  praise  each  other's  work, 
182 


OLD  VALENTINES 

and  damn  the  work  of  the  absent  ones;  and 
they  go  prowling  about  looking  for  a  bo- 
hemia  that  never  existed,  and  can  never 
exist  for  them;  for  bohemia  is  simply  youth 
and  poverty  and  high  aspirations,  com- 
bined, and  can't  be  found  by  search.  If 
these  literary  chaps  are  exceptionally  for- 
tunate, they  are  invited  to  great  houses, 
where  they  dine  with  stupid,  overfed  people 
who  pretend  they  have  read  their  books, 
though  they  have  n't,  unless  they  are  unfit 
to  read.  And  so  they  go  on  wearily  turn- 
ing that  treadmill  —  and  wonder  why  their 
work  has  lost  freshness,  and  convince  them- 
selves it  has  gained  style.  I  am  not  a  liter- 
ary chap,  and  I  don't  wish  to  be  one.  I 
am  a  poet.  Poetry  is  my  profession.  And 
the  only  way  I  can  succeed  in  it,  the  only 
way  it  is  worth  succeeding  in,  is  to  relate  it 
to  life,  real  life,  the  big,  elemental  struggle 
for  existence  that  is  going  on,  here  in 
183 


OLD  VALENTINES 

London,  and  everywhere;  to  wed  Art  to 
Reality,  lest  the  jade  saunter  the  streets, 
a  light  o'  love,  seeking  to  sell  her  soul." 

As  they  walked  past  the  bookshop,  and 
through  the  little  square,  John  said :  — 

"I  should  like  to  live  in  London ,  eight 
months  of  the  year,  and  give  most  of  my 
time  to  Saint  Ruth's.  And  the  rest  of  the 
year  I  should  like  to  live  in  a  village,  like 
Rosemary,  Sussex,  where  I  lived  as  a  boy; 
on  the  outskirts  of  a  little  village,  near  the 
green  country;  and  do  my  writing  there, 
under  the  blue  sky  —  with  God  looking 
over  my  shoulder,  to  see  the  work  well 
done." 


XI 

THERE  was  a  motor-car  in  front  of  the 
house;  its  blinding  lights  illuminated  the 
windows  at  the  other  end  of  the  square. 

Mrs.  Farquharson  met  them  at  the  door. 

"He's  upstairs  in  your  room.  Sir  Peter 
Oglebay  —  your  uncle,"  she  said,  in  an  ex- 
cited whisper.  "Three  times  he  has  called 
this  day;  once  at  eleven,  once  at  two;  and 
now  again  at  six.  'Sit  down  and  wait,'  I 
says  to  him,  the  last  time;  'they  will  surely 
be  home  for  dinner;  never  have  they  missed 
since  first  they  came,'  says  I;  and  sit  down 
he  did  —  and  there  he  sits ;  and  does  n't 
he  look  noble,  sitting  there!  Genevieve's 
that  nervous  she  drops  everything  she 
touches." 

John  and  Phyllis  exchanged  looks.   He 
smiled  as  easily  as  he  could. 
185 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Would  you  like  it  if  I  walked  about  a 
bit  —  or  dropped  in  on  old  Rowlandson, 
while  you  talk  with  your  uncle?"  he 
asked. 

"  I  want  you  with  me,  John.  I  need  you," 
said  Phyllis. 

"Together 's  the  word,"  he  replied,  and 
they  mounted  the  stairs. 

So  far  as  Phyllis  was  concerned,  it  was 
all  over  in  a  moment. 

Sir  Peter  rose  when  they  entered.  She 
gave  one  look  at  his  sad,  white  face,  and 
drawn  mouth. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Peter!"  she  cried;  and  was 
in  his  arms. 

He  tried  to  say  the  words  he  had  humbly 
learned. 

"  I  have  your  pardon  to  ask,  my  dear  — " 

That  was  as  far  as  he  got.  She  put  both 
hands  over  his  mouth;  and  withdrew  them 
only  to  kiss  him;  and  whispered  — 
1 86 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"It  is  I  who  should  ask  your  pardon,  Un- 
cle Peter.  I  have  been  very,  very  naughty, 
and  I  am  very,  very  sorry." 

Now,  when  Sir  Peter  heard  that  childish 
formula,  he  seemed  to  hold  in  his  arms  the 
little  girl  who  had  repeated  it,  many  times, 
under  the  instructions  of  Mrs.  Burbage. 
The  years  slipped  away.  He  held  her  close; 
the  wounds  were  healed. 

When  two  men  have  a  disagreeable 
interview  before  them,  each  maneuvers 
for  position.  The  one  who  gets  the  fireplace 
back  of  him  has  an  advantage.  It  is  n't 
impregnable,  but  the  other  fellow  must 
force  the  fighting.  The  place  may  be  car- 
ried by  storm;  but  it  takes  a  spirited  action. 
John  executed  a  flank  movement,  while  his 
ally  engaged  the  enemy.  He  got  the  fire- 
place; it  was  a  small  one,  but  it  was  his 
own. 

187 


OLD   VALENTINES 

One  wishes  John  well  out  of  this  scene; 
our  hopes  are  high  for  him;  but  he  is  a  queer 
chap;  you  never  know  how  to  take  him, 
nor  what  he  will  say,  or  do.  We  can  only 
wish  him  well;  and  observe  that  he  carries 
his  chin  high. 

Sir  Peter  released  Phyllis,  and  then  turned 
to  John. 

"I  wish  to  apologize  to  you,  Landless," 
said  Sir  Peter,  and  crossed  the  room;  he 
offered  his  hand;  John  took  it  and  they 
stood  for  a  moment  so,  neither  speaking. 

"I  hope  you  can  forgive  what  I  said," 
Sir  Peter  concluded. 

"I  did  that  before  we  left  your  house  — 
that  morning,"  said  John.  "Don't  say 
anything  more  about  it,  sir,  please.  I  should 
have  been  as  angry  as  you  were — under 
the  same  circumstances.  I  am  sure  there  is 
need  of  forbearance  on  both  sides." 
188 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Sir  Peter  dropped  John's  hand,  and  strode 
to  the  window.  In  a  moment  he  faced  about 
again. 

"I  can't  have  it  that  way,"  said  he.  "It 
was  unspeakable — " 

John  stopped  him. 

"I  beg  you  to  say  no  more,  sir.  I  assure 
you  there  is  not  an  unkind  thought  in  my 
heart.  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead." 
John  hesitated;  then  stammered  out — 
"Fine  weather  we  are  having,  sir." 

Sir  Peter  offered  his  hand  again;  their 
grasp  was  cordial.  Each  looked  straight 
into  the  other's  eyes. 

"Oh,  dear,"  said  Phyllis,  pushing  the  big 
armchair  nearer  the  fire.  "  Is  n't  everything 
lovely!" 

She  coaxed  her  uncle  into  the  chair  with 
a  pretty  gesture,  and  seated  herself  in  a 
smaller  one,  with  a  happy  little  sigh. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 
189 


OLD  VALENTINES 

John  opened  to  Mrs.  Farquharson;  she 
curtseyed. 

"You  were  wishful  to  see  me,  my  d — 
ma'am?"  she  asked. 

Phyllis  laughed  gayly.  "You  are  won- 
derful, Farquharson,"  she  said.  "I  have 
been  thinking  for  five  minutes  how  nice  it 
would  be  if  my  uncle  dined  with  us;  if  it 
were  quite  convenient  for  you." 

"As  ever  could  be,"  said  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son. "  I  sent  Genevieve  for  another  chicken 
as  soon  as  ever  he  was  in  this  room.  You 
never  saw  a  plumper." 

"Isn't  she  wonderful?"  Phyllis  turned 
to  her  uncle.  "Uncle  Peter,  you  must  be 
formally  presented  to  my  dear  Farquhar- 
son, my  old  nurse.  Farquharson — Sir 
Peter  Oglebay,  my  uncle." 

Mrs.  Farquharson  curtseyed  again;  Sir 
Peter  rose  and  bowed  gravely. 

"A  great  many  years  ago  I  heard  how 
190 


OLD  VALENTINES 

wonderful  you  were,  Farquharson,"  he  said, 
"from  a  little  girl,  who  is  now  grown, — 
and  married, —  but  is  of  the  same  opinion 
still.  It  was  a  piece  of  good  fortune,  in- 
deed, that  brought  these  children  of  mine 
to  your  house." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  Thank  you,  Sir  Peter," 
replied  Mrs.  Farquharson,  her  gray  eyes 
very  large.  "I  should  have  made  your 
acquaintance  years  ago  if  that  Mrs. — 
Well,  least  said,  soonest  mended.  But  sorry 
I  am  that  never  did  those  advertisements 
meet  my  eye  if  ever  they  were  printed.  The 
expense  of  them,  too,  sir,  in  every  paper  in 
London,  every  day  for  three  months.  Not 
that  you  minded  that!"  Mrs.  Farquharson 
had  told  the  story  to  the  first-floor  front; 
the  first-floor  front  who  had  been  in  stocks 
—  and  seen  better  days ;  it  had  not  lost  in 
the  telling. 

"If  you  are  certain — "  said  Sir  Peter  to 
191 


Mrs.  Farquharson.  "Very  well,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  dine." 

On  the  way  to  the  lower  regions,  Mrs. 
Farquharson  dropped  in  on  the  first  floor. 

"Sir  Peter  Oglebay's  dining  with  us  to- 
night," she  said.  "I  was  frightened  of  him 
at  first,  but,  pooh !  he 's  as  easy  as  an  old 
shoe." 

John  still  held  the  fireplace;  he  knew  the 
worst  was  yet  to  come. 

"There  are  great  preparations  at  home, 
my  dear,"  said  Sir  Peter  to  Phyllis.  "Your 
little  study-room  has  been  polished  till  it 
shines,  and  the  two  adjoining  rooms  have 
been  rearranged  three  times  since  this 
morning."  He  looked  at  John.  "Burbage 
has  been  told  that  I  hope  to  have  both  of 
you  home  again.  Her  efforts  are  Hercu- 
lean to  anticipate  every  wish  Phyllis  may 
have." 

"I  hope  you  won't  be  hurt,  sir,"  said 
192 


OLD  VALENTINES 

John,  "but  I  fear  that  is  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. I  ask  you  to  believe  there  is  n't  an 
iota  of  unfriendliness  in  it,  but —  you  see, 
sir,  Phyllis  and  I  must  live  within  our  own 
income;  and  independence  is  as  necessary 
to  me  as  air.  I  am  sorry  if  you  are  disap- 
pointed." 

"I  appreciate  your  point  of  view  per- 
fectly," said  Sir  Peter.  "I  am  coming  to 
that.  But  first  I  ask  you  to  sympathize 
with  mine,  a  little.  My  house  is  so  large 
that  I  am  lost  in  it,  unless  there  are  others 
there.  And  as  one  grows  older  there  are  so 
few  who  care  to  come.  The  old  friends  have 
new  interests;  children  about  them;  and 
the  wider  circle  that  means.  The  house  has 
never  seemed  so  large  and  so  lonely  as  dur- 
ing the  past  month.  For  many  years  my 
brother  Robert,  Phyllis's  father,  lived  with 
me  there.  It  will  be  hard  for  you  to  believe 
I  was  ever  gay,  but  it  was  really  a  gay  house 
193 


OLD   VALENTINES 

then.  His  friends  were  a  light-hearted  lot, 
and  they  were  as  welcome  there  as  my  own ; 
mine  were  few  by  comparison.  We  talked 
pictures  most  of  the  time;  his  friends  were 
painters.  What  dreams  for  the  future  I 
heard  from  them!  The  best  of  them  loved 
Robert —  and  believed  in  him.  No  one 
could  help  loving  him.  I  remember  a 
remark  Thorburg,  the  sculptor,  made  one 
night,  at  a  dinner  in  his  honor.  Thorburg 
had  just  done  some  extraordinary  thing — 
I  have  forgotten  what;  his  l Grief,'  perhaps. 
'Oglebay,'  said  he  to  Robert,  'there  is  n't  a 
man  in  this  room  who  does  n't  envy  you. 
We  all  have  talent;  but  yours  touches  the 
highest  mark.  I  will  not  say  it  is  genius,  but 
it  is  near  it;  we  shall  bare  our  heads  before 
one  of  your  pictures,  some  day.'  Little 
Singleton  spoke  up  then.  'The  great  god 
Thor  hath  said  it,  Oglebay,  but  we  all  think 
it.'  They  were  all  there  that  night;  there 
194 


OLD  VALENTINES 

must  have  been  twenty  of  us  at  the  table. 
I  can  see  their  faces  now,  clearly,  and  hear 
little  Singleton's  piping  voice.  Singleton, 
Knowles,  and  Leonard  —  the  inseparable 
trio,  they  called  them." 

Sir  Peter  paused. 

"As  I  said,  the  house  was  gay  then.  The 
Oglebay  Prize  was  the  result  of  just  such 
a  dinner.  Robert  suggested  it.  Thorburg 
was  one  of  the  trustees  until  he  died;  it  has 
helped  many  a  lad  through  his  days  in  the 
Latin  Quarter.  I  have  had  some  fine  letters 
from  those  lads.  One  or  two  of  them  have 
turned  out  really  good  work;  good  enough 
to  have  satisfied  Robert  that  the  prize  was 
worth  while.  Yes,  —  the  Oglebay  Prize  is 
one  of  the  few  things  I  look  back  upon  with 
unalloyed  pleasure;  my  bridge  in  Natal  is 
another." 

Phyllis  had  moved  her  chair  nearer  to 
her  uncle;  while  he  spoke  of  her  father,  he 
195 


OLD  VALENTINES 

held  her  hand,  on  the  arm  of  his  chair.  Now 
she  spoke  quickly,  with  that  pretty  catch 
in  her  breath. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Peter.  Tell  John  about  the 
Natal  bridge.  It  is  more  interesting  and 
more  exciting  than  the  best  novel  you  ever 
read." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  the  story,  sir," 
said  John;  it  was  pleasant  to  see  the  sin- 
cerity of  his  interest. 

"I  will  tell  it  to  you  some  day,  John," 
replied  Sir  Peter.  He  smiled.  "You  will 
probably  hear  it  a  great  many  times.  We 
all  have  our  failings;  that  story  is  mine. 
My  cronies  at  the  club  tell  me  I  lead  up  to 
it  so  skillfully  they  cannot  always  stop  me 
in  time." 

"Do  tell  it,  Uncle  Peter,"  said  Phyllis. 

Sir  Peter  thought  for  a  moment. 

"Some  time  I  will,  my  dear,"  he  said. 
"But  not  now.  My  mind  is  on  something 
196 


OLD   VALENTINES 

else."  He  addressed  his  remarks  to  John 
again.  "We  were  talking  about  the  days 
when  there  was  overflowing  life  in  my  old 
house." 

John  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire;  his 
face  was  attentive,  serious,  considering; 
but  every  line  in  it  expressed  determina- 
tion. 

"Those  days  ended  when  Robert  mar- 
ried," Sir  Peter  continued.  "I  quarreled 
with  him  and  we  parted.  I  never  saw  him 
again.  And  for  ten  years  my  house  was  a 
mausoleum,  haunted  by  memories;  a  tor- 
ture-house of  vain  regrets  and  useless  long- 
ings." 

His  voice  broke;  he  rose  suddenly  and 
walked  to  the  window  again.  They  were 
silent  until  he  returned  to  his  chair.  Phyllis 
seated  herself  on  the  broad  arm  of  it,  and 
laid  a  caressing  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He 
took  the  hand  and  held  it. 
197 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Then  came  the  news  from  the  North  — 
that  my  little  girl  was  motherless  —  and 
fatherless;  and  then  came  my  little  girl 
herself.  She  was  a  very  little  girl  then;  a 
sad  and  lonely  little  girl;  but" —  Sir  Peter 
cleared  his  throat,  and  spoke  huskily  and 
slowly —  "but  she  brought  comfort  to  me. 
There  was  something  in  life  for  me  again  — 
besides  my  work.  My  work  I  always  had. 
I  thanked  God  for  that.  I  need  not  tell  you, 
John,  how  this  little  girl  crept  in  to  my  heart, 
nor  how  her  small  fingers  smoothed  away 
the  wrinkles  from  my  gloomy  old  face." 
Sir  Peter  looked  up  at  her  and  pressed  the 
hand  he  held.  "And  so  the  years  rolled  on 
—  and  she  grew,  and  grew,  and  grew,  until 
she  became  a  young  woman.  A —  a  pass- 
ably good-looking  young  woman — eh, 
John?  Wouldn't  you  say  so — passably 
good-looking?" 

John  smiled. 

198 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"I  might  say  so  to  you,  sir —  privately," 
he  admitted. 

"And  when  she  was  certain  of  her  con- 
quest of  me,"  continued  Sir  Peter,  "she 
looked  about,  as  it  were,  for  other  worlds  to 
conquer.  And  along  came  a  —  er  —  h'm — 
along  came  a  young  prince.  Precisely  so — 
along  came  a  young  prince  upon  whom  the 
fairies  had  bestowed  marvelous  gifts."  Sir 
Peter  fairly  chuckled  as  he  completed  this 
unusual  imaginative  flight.  "Marvelous 
gifts,"  he  repeated.  "Eh,  Phyllis?  Would 
you  say  he  had  marvelous  gifts?" 

"If  we  were  quite  alone,  Uncle  Peter,  I 
might  say  so,"  confessed  Phyllis. 

"And  this  passably  good-looking  young 
woman  and  this  prince  of  the  marvelous 
gifts  proceeded  to  fall  in  love  with  each 
other  in  the  most  natural  way  in  the  world," 
Sir  Peter  went  on.  "Precisely  so.  In  the 
most  natural  way  in  the  world;  as  any  one 
199 


OLD  VALENTINES 

but  a  grumpy  old  fellow  would  have  fore- 
seen they  would.  And  having  fallen  in  love 
with  each  other,  what  in  the  world  was 
there  for  them  to  do  but  to  be  married  at 
once — eh?  And  yet,  will  you  believe  it?  — 
there  was  a  grumpy  old  fellow  who  wished 
to  prevent  it.  Now,  what  could  you  say  to 
an  old  fellow  as  grumpy  as  that?"  Sir 
Peter  adjusted  his  eyeglass  and  looked  first 
at  John,  and  then  at  Phyllis,  quizzically. 

"I  should  say  no  one  could  blame  him," 
said  John  promptly. 

"I  should  n't  say  anything.  I  should 
just  hug  him,"  said  Phyllis,  and  carried  out 
the  threat  with  spirit. 

"And  now  we  come  to  the  point  of  this 
long  story,"  resumed  Sir  Peter,  readjusting 
his  eyeglass,  which  had  fallen  during 
Phyllis's  demonstration,  "  These  two  hav- 
ing married  have  no  other  duty  before  them 
than  to — er — eh?  Of  course.  Precisely! 
200 


OLD  VALENTINES 

No  other  duty  than  to  live  happily  ever 
afterward  —  eh  ?  As  they  always  do  in 
stories.  But  the  question  is  —  where? 
Precisely!  Where  shall  they  live  happily 
ever  afterward  ?  Shall  they  live  all  by  them- 
selves? Or  shall  they  share  their  happiness 
—  a  little  of  it — with  the  grumpy  old  fellow 
aforesaid?  He  does  not  like  to  base  his 
plea  to  them  on  his  need  of  the  little  girl 
he  has  loved  so  many  years ;  nor  on  his  need 
of  the  marvelous  gifts  of  the  young  prince, 
though  they  are  especially  needed  just  at 
this  time,  as  I  shall  tell  you.  Now,  John," 
said  Sir  Peter,  in  his  most  engaging  way, 
"  advise  me  about  this.  What  ground  should 
he  base  his  petition  upon  in  order  to  win 
his  case?  Because  he  is  more  anxious  to 
win  this  case  than  he  was  to  finish  the 
Natal  bridge,  —  and  he  was  terribly  anx- 
ious about  that,  —  as  you  will  hear,  one  of 
these  days." 

201 


OLD  VALENTINES 

John  glanced  toward  Phyllis;  she  in- 
stantly turned  her  head,  and  looked  reso- 
lutely in  the  opposite  direction.  She  felt 
that  the  answer  to  Sir  Peter's  question 
belonged  to  John.  Sir  Peter  saw  John 
waver;  he  caught  his  glance  at  Phyllis;  and, 
like  a  good  campaigner,  followed  up  the 
attack. 

"I  need  your  assistance  just  now,  John, 
very  badly,"  said  Sir  Peter.  "For  years 
my  friends  in  the  British  Engineering 
Society  have  been  urging  me  to  prepare  and 
publish  my  recollections.  Some  of  them 
went  to  Allan  Robertson's  Sons,  the  pub- 
lishers, about  it  and  they  have  given  me  no 
peace  since  I  was  weak  enough  to  make  a 
promise  that  they  should  have  the  book. 
*  Recollections  of  an  Engineer,  1874-1910,' 
it  is  to  be  called.  Now,  —  if  you  would  help 
me  I  could  do  it  easily.  And  we  would 
have  some  good  times  over  it,  I  hope." 
202 


OLD   VALENTINES 

John  glanced  at  Phyllis  again;  but  she 
would  not  look  at  him.  It  was  very  hard 
not  to  at  the  time;  but  Phyllis  was  so  glad 
afterward  that  she  did  n't. 

Sir  Peter  got  up  from  his  chair,  and  stood 
in  front  of  John,  both  hands  on  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"Dear  lad,"  he  said.  "  In  a  few  years  you 
and  Phyllis  will  have  all  that  is  mine  in  the 
world.  You  can't  prevent  that — with  all 
your  pride —  for  which  I  honor  you.  In  a 
few  years  it  will  all  be  yours.  For  those 
few  years  will  you  not  share  it  with  me 
—  and  let  them  be  peaceful  and  happy 
years?" 

John  turned  his  face  away. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  he  said.  "We  will  go 
to  your  home1 — to-morrow.  That  is  —  if 
Phyllis  says  so,  too." 

Phyllis  flashed  him  a  radiant  look. 

"But  you  must  let  me  contribute  my 
203 


OLD   VALENTINES 

little  pittance  to  the  general  fund,"  added 
John.  "It  isn't  much  —  but  it  is  all  I 
have." 

"With  all  my  heart!"  said  Sir  Peter. 

The  white  tablecloth  was  laid;  the  coffee 
percolator  hummed  its  contented  little 
song.  The  broiled  chicken  was  delicious; 
and  the  browned  potatoes.  There  was  a 
grape  jelly;  Sir  Peter  was  helped  twice  to 
this. 

"Do  you  make  it  yourself?"  he  asked 
Mrs.  Farquharson. 

"Whoever  else?"  she  answered. 

"But  you  should  taste  her  marmalade  at 
breakfast!"  exclaimed  John. 

"I  like  a  good  marmalade;  we  have  the 
'Dundee';  which  is  yours?"  asked  Sir 
Peter.  He  fell  into  their  informal  ways  so 
easily. 

"We  make  our  own,"  said  Mrs.  Far- 
quharson proudly. 

204 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Sir  Peter,  as  he 
stirred  his  coffee  with  a  tiny  spoon,  and 
accepted  a  match  for  his  cigar — "upon 
my  word,  I  have  n't  eaten  such  a  dinner  in 
years.  So  —  er  —  companionable  —  you 
know." 

At  eleven,  when  they  went  with  him  to 
the  door,  Mrs.  Farquharson  met  them  in 
the  hall. 

"Good-night,  Farquharson,"  said  Sir 
Peter. 

"Good-night,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son, and  handed  him  a  parcel.  "  Would 
you  please  to  slip  these  glasses  into  your 
greatcoat  pocket :  two  of  the  jelly,  and  two 
of  the  marmalade.  Here  are  the  recipes, 
written  on  this  paper;  Genevieve  has  copied 
them  out  very  plain  and  large.  That  Mrs. 
Burbage  can  read  them  —  with  her  spec- 
tacles." 


XII 

Two  happy,  eventful  years  passed. 

One  evening,  as  they  sat  in  the  long 
library,  John  happened  to  mention  Rose- 
mary, Sussex,  • —  and  the  old  parsonage, 
where  his  boyhood  had  been  spent,  unten- 
anted  now  —  in  disrepair.  Sir  Peter  asked 
a  casual  question  or  two.  For  the  rest  of 
the  evening  he  schemed  in  silence. 

Shortly  thereafter  his  mysterious  ab- 
sences began.  He  required  an  earlier  break- 
fast on  certain  days ;  and  John  and  Phyllis 
sometimes  dined  alone. 

The  new  parsonage  at  Rosemary  is  nearer 
the  church  than  the  old,  —  but  the  old 
parsonage  has  more  land,  and  its  garden 
slopes  gently  downward  to  the  little  river, 
slipping  murmurously  away  to  the  sea. 
206 


OLD  VALENTINES 

So  long  as  Sir  Peter  tried  to  keep  part  of 
his  plan  a  secret  from  the  vestry,  he  had  one 
failure  after  another  for  his  pains.  Time 
after  time  he  returned  on  the  early  evening 
train  to  London,  growling  into  his  white 
mustache.  They  would  not  say  no,  and  they 
did  not  say  yes;  he  made  no  progress.  But 
when  he  pledged  a  discreet  vestryman  to 
confidence,  and  told  him  he  sought  to  buy 
the  old  parsonage  for  the  son  of  its  former 
occupant,  the  Reverend  Hugh  Landless, 
and  for  his  wife,  the  ways  were  smoothed  at 
once.  A  morning  came,  at  last,  when  he 
could  tell  them  he  had  a  surprise  in  store 
for  them,  and  could  place  the  title-deed  in 
Phyllis's  hands. 

"It  is  my  belated  wedding-gift,"  said  Sir 
Peter. 

Phyllis  will  never  forget  her  first  glimpse 
of  the  gray  old  house.  As  the  motor-car 
neared  the  curve  in  the  road  which  discloses 
207 


OLD  VALENTINES 

the  view  John  knew  and  loved  so  well,  he 
said  to  her:  — 

"Now,  dearest;  in  just  a  moment. 
There!" 

The  house  is  screened  from  the  road  by 
an  ivy-covered  wall,  great  trees,  and  the 
shrubbery.  But  Phyllis  caught  the  very 
view  John  wished  her  to  have,  —  a  bit  of 
the  west  gable,  and  the  window  from  which 
his  mother's  handkerchief  had  fluttered 
many  gay  farewells  to  him. 

Sir  Peter  stood  by  the  sun-dial,  in  the 
garden,  and  listened,  well  pleased,  to  John's 
eager  voice,  as  he  pointed  out  the  spots 
endeared  to  him  by  memories  of  childhood. 
The  sun-dial!  How  he  had  pondered  over 
the  quatrain,  chiseled  in  the  stone:  — 

"The  Moving  Finger  writes;  and  having  writ 
Moves  on  —  nor  all  your  Piety  nor  Wit 
Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  your  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it." 

208 


OLD   VALENTINES 

"  My  father  used  to  sit  reading  aloud  to 
my  mother,  near  that  hawthorn,"  said 
John,  "  and  if  she  asked  him  for  the  time  of 
day  he  was  whimsical  enough  to  walk  over 
here  and  consult  the  sun-dial,  rather  than 
his  watch." 

They  loitered  in  the  neglected,  over- 
grown garden,  —  soon  to  be  bright  with 
flowers  again, —  a  trysting-place  for  birds. 

"  My  mother  planned  her  garden  anew 
each  winter,"  said  John.  "She  could  hardly 
wait  for  the  soft  air  of  spring  to  carry  out 
her  plans.  She  loved  the  flowers.  I  remem- 
ber her  so  clearly,  working  here,  in  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat,  with  a  pair  of  my  father's 
gloves  on  her  hands,  while  I  played  near  by. 
I  had  desperate  adventures  in  this  garden, 
and  my  play  often  ended  in  my  being 
half  frightened — and  seeking  safety  from 
imagined  terrors,  in  the  refuge  of  her  lap." 

They  went  into  every  room  of  the  old 
209 


OLD   VALENTINES 

house;  sunny  rooms;  there  was  need  of 
repairs,  indeed,  but  Phyllis  declared  there 
should  be  no  alteration. 

"I  want  it  to  be  just  as  it  was,"  she  said 
to  Sir  Peter. 

And  so,  in  June,  they  were  at  home  there 
—  and  the  garden  was  a  riot  of  color. 

On  a  particular  afternoon  in  June,  Sir 
Peter,  with  his  cigar,  and  John,  in  flannels, 
writing,  at  a  table  under  the  trees,  both 
looked  up  to  see  Phyllis  coming  toward 
them,  from  the  house,  with  her  baby  in  her 
arms. 

The  garden  was  full  of  the  perfume  of 
roses.  They  blossomed  everywhere.  There 
was  a  pink  bud  in  John's  buttonhole,  and 
a  red  one  in  Sir  Peter's.  Phyllis  had  a  great 
bunch  of  white  roses  at  her  waist.  Her  gown 
was  white,  too :  soft  and  lacy  and  clinging. 
That  would  have  been  John's  description 
of  it;  and  he  is  a  poet. 
210 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Hullo,  Phyllis,"  said  John. 

"S-h-h,"  said  Phyllis. 

"S-h-h,  John,"  said  Sir  Peter. 

Phyllis  laid  her  precious  burden  in  the 
perambulator,  near  Sir  Peter's  chair. 

"  Mark  and  Peggy  will  be  here  in  half  an 
hour,"  she  announced.  "She  telephoned 
from  Whinstead.  Is  n't  it  characteristic 
of  Peggy? —  a  motor-car  wedding-journey. 
They  are  having  the  most  glorious  time, 
she  said.  They  can't  stay,  though;  just  a 
call." 

"Whinstead,  eh?"  said  John.  "Well,  if 
Mark  is  driving,  he  will  cut  that  thirty 
minutes  to  twenty.  I  shall  barely  finish 
this  page  before  they  get  here." 

He  was  engaged  upon  the  revision  of 
"Old  Valentines,  and  Other  Poems,"  for 
the  second  edition.  The  little  book,  bound 
in  red,  with  golden  cupids,  lay  open  on  the 
table. 

211 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Uncle  Peter,  see  how  beautifully  baby 
is  sleeping,"  said  Phyllis. 

Sir  Peter  adjusted  his  eyeglass,  and  peeped 
under  the  parasol. 

"I  must  speak  to  Burbage  about  tea," 
added  Phyllis.  "Just  keep  half  an  eye — " 

"Both  eyes,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Peter. 
With  his  foot  he  drew  the  perambulator  a 
little  nearer  to  him. 

John  looked  up  from  his  writing. 

"Give  me  a  synonym  for  'austerity,'" 
he  commanded. 

" '  Sternness,' "  suggested  Phyllis. 

"'Severity,'"  said  Sir  Peter. 

"'Severity'  introduces  a  rhyme,  which 
won't  do  at  all;  'sternness'  does  n't  convey 
asceticism,  as  'austerity'  does.  Give  me 
others." 

"  'Gravity,' "  said  Phyllis.   "Or  'serious- 


ness.'" 


'Asperity,'"  suggested  Sir  Peter. 
212 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"I  have  it!"  said  John.  "'His  stern 
simplicity." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  say  we  could  have  two 
words?"  asked  Sir  Peter. 

John's  pen  was  busy;  obviously  he  did 
not  hear. 

"Burbage  will  serve  tea  here,  Uncle 
Peter,"  said  Phyllis.  "John,  you  will  try 
to  make  Mark  talk,  won't  you  ?  He  is  so 
shy." 

John  gazed  at  nothing,  with  vacant 
eyes.  Phyllis  looked  at  her  uncle,  comi- 
cally. 

"Uncle  Peter,  you  tell  him  about  Mark 
the  next  time  he  gives  evidence  of  belong- 
ing to  the  human  family." 

She  walked  toward  the  house,  intent  on 
arrangements.  At  the  door  she  glanced  over 
her  shoulder. 

"Uncle  Peter,"  she  called  to  him,  "you 
were  pushing  the  perambulator  forward 
213 


OLD    VALENTINES 

and  backward  with  your  foot.   It  is  n't  al- 
lowed." 

"They  always  did  it  in  my  day,"  said 
Sir  Peter. 

"  Well,  they»don't  now,"  replied  Phyllis. 

"Very  well,  my  dear,"  said  Sir  Peter 
meekly. 

Phyllis  went  into  the  house.  Sir  Peter 
observed  the  windows  keenly;  when  he 
thought  the  coast  was  clear  he  gently 
pushed  the  perambulator  forward  and 
backward  with  his  foot. 

Twenty  minutes  later  a  big  gray  car 
deposited  three  dusty  persons  on  the  little 
porch.  Peggy  and  Phyllis  cooed  over  each 
other.  Mark  pointed  to  Mrs.  Farquhar- 
son. 

"We  picked  her  up,"  he  said.  "She  had 
started  to  walk  from  the  railway  station." 

Mrs.  Farquharson  surveyed  him  with  an 
austerity  that  required  no  synonym. 
214 


OLD   VALENTINES 

"Never  again,"  said  she.  "Pony-cart  or 
no  pony-cart.  A  hundred  miles  an  hour, 
my  dear,  if  ever  he  went  one." 

She  retired  to  the  rear,  where  Burbage 
could  be  found,  with  whom  she  had  come 
to  take  tea  and  pass  the  afternoon. 

"Lead  me  to  the  infant!"  demanded 
Peggy.  "  I  have  n't  seen  him  for  so  long 
I  am  prepared  to  find  him  in  knickerbock- 
ers, smoking  a  cigarette." 

"Peggy!  only  two  weeks,"  exclaimed 
.Phyllis. 

"Two  weeks!"  rejoined  Peggy.  "Oh,  in 
time,  of  course;  but  aeons  in  experience.  We 
have  had  tire  trouble — " 

"Oh,  cut  that,  Peg,"  suggested  Mark. 

"I  will  not,"  retorted  Peggy.  "We  have 
paid  enough  for  new  tires  since  we  started 
to  endow  Saint  Ruth's.  Each  time  our  trou- 
bles haveoccurred  in  the  exact  center  of  pop- 
ulation. I  have  been  stared  at  from  front 
215 


OLD   VALENTINES 

and  rear  by  the  entire  British  people.  And 
Mark  has  given  the  recording  angel  the  time 
of  his  life.  Everything  has  happened  that 
could  wreck  our  married  happiness,  but  we 
are  now  armor-clad  against  infelicity.  We 
have  really  had  the  most  beau-ti-ful  time ! 
We  have  n't  eaten  a  meal  in  an  inn  except 
breakfast.  Simple  life  by  the  wayside  for 
us!  Two  alcohol  stoves — I  am  starved 
now,  though !  Perhaps  we  had  better  have 
tea  before  I  see  the  baby  —  I  might  be 
tempted  beyond  my  strength." 

"And  you  are  well,  Mark?"  asked 
Phyllis. 

"Finer  than  a  new  crank-shaft,"  he  re- 
plied, grinning.  "I  am  also  in  the  bread- 
line, though." 

"One  result  of  our  difficulties  was  the 
development    of    Mark's    conversational 
powers,"  whispered  Peggy  to  Phyllis.  "He 
is  almost  a  self-starter  now." 
216 


OLD   VALENTINES 

"How  well  you  both  look,  brown  as — " 

"Don't  say  gypsies ! "  urged  Peggy.  "  We 
have  heard  it  everywhere." 

"Indians,  then,"  said  Phyllis. 

Tea  was  served  under  the  trees.  The  baby 
awakened  as  though  for  Peggy's  express 
benefit.  He  spluttered  and  gurgled,  and 
made  queer  faces  in  his  charming  way,  se- 
lecting Peggy  for  the  most  fascinating  at- 
tentions. After  tea,  Phyllis  and  Peggy 
went  into  the  house  to  exchange  confi- 
dences. Peggy  carried  the  baby. 

Sir  Peter  and  John  did  their  utmost  with 
Mark.  Motoring,  cricket,  tennis,  golf — 
all  had  their  turn.  He  was  amiability  itself, 
but  he  would  not  and  could  not  be  made  to 
talk.  They  were  at  their  wit's  end  when 
Phyllis  and  Peggy  rejoined  them,  and  Phyl- 
lis took  Mark  off  to  the  garden. 

Peggy  sat  with  the  men,  chatting  vol- 
ubly. John's  eyes  followed  Mark  and 
217 


OLD  VALENTINES 

Phyllis.  When  he  could  do  so  unobserved, 
he  touched  Sir  Peter's  arm  quietly,  and 
directed  his  attention  to  them.  Mark  was 
talking  at  full  speed;  Phyllis  was  listening, 
and  cutting  roses  into  a  basket. 

"Yes,"  said  Peggy,  "we  have  had  some 
ripping  times.  The  most  ripping  was  yes- 
terday. We  almost  robbed  England  of  her 
greatest  living  poet,  by  nearly  running  Mr. 
Kipling  down,  near  Pevensey.  It  was  in  a 
narrow  lane  and  he  was  walking  with  his 
chin  on  his  chest.  We  supposed,  of  course, 
he  heard  us.  Mark  used  the  emergency 
brake;  the  car  slewed  around;  he  was  n't 
even  grazed.  And  he  took  it  as  coolly  as 
you  please.  John,  if  we  had  hit  him,  would 
you  be  next  in  line  for  laureate?" 

"  I  hope  he  was  thinking  out  a  sequel  to 

'Kim,'"  said  Sir  Peter.     "I  picked  that 

book  up  in  the  club  library  one  day  when 

I  had  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  kill.    I  sat 

218 


OLD  VALENTINES 

there  all  the  afternoon.  I  have  read  it  three 
times,  since." 

"  I  liked  '  Stalky '  best.  How  do  the  pretty 
little  jingles  go,  John?"  asked  Peggy.  She 
took  a  copy  of  "The  Spectator"  from  the 
table,  and  turned  the  leaves,  idly. 

"Oh,  jinglewise,"  answered  John. 
.  "My  word!  Listen  to  this,"  exclaimed 
Peggy;  and  then  read —  " '  We  should  hesi- 
tate to  say  that  Mr.  Landless 's  name  will 
stand  higher  than  the  second  rank  of  poets. 
But  so  much  praise  he  has  fairly  wrested 
from  even  the  most  captious  reviewer.  In- 
deed, his  "Lyrics  "  invite  one  to  the  danger- 
ous pastime  of  prophecy;  and  prophecy  of  a 
bright  future  for  this  newest  of  our  versi- 
fiers. Certainly,  if  the  more  serious  work 
we  are  promised  in  "London:  A  Poem" 
(which  is  announced  for  the  autumn)  ex- 
ceeds in  dignity  and  restraint  the  best  of 
his  "Lyrics,"  we  shall  throw  caution  to  the 
219 


OLD  VALENTINES 

winds  and  predict  great  things  for  him. 
We  observe  two  typographical  errors  on 
page — '  Oh !  who  cares  about  the  old  typo- 
graphical errors!  Well,  well,  John.  Isn't 
that  splendid!  What  a  happy  girl  Phil 
must  be!" 

"We  are  all  very  happy,  Margaret," 
said  Sir  Peter. .  "And  very  proud  to  be  re- 
lated to  him — even  by  marriage." 

"And  Phil  tells  me  you  have  turned 
author,  too,"  said  Peggy  to  Sir  Peter.  "A 
young  fellow  like  you  to  be  writing  your 
*  Recollections'!  Think  how  much  more 
you  will  have  to  recollect  if  you  wait  a  few 
years." 

Sir  Peter  shook  his  finger  at  her. 

"  If  you  are  not  careful,  young  woman,  I 
will  put  you  into  them —  as  I  first  remem- 
ber you,  very  red  and  wrinkled." 

Mark's  and  Peggy's  stay  was  short — 
all  too  short.  Mark  settled  down  behind 
220 


OLD  VALENTINES 

the  wheel.  "London,  next,"  said  he. 
Peggy's  face  was  buried  in  roses  as  they 
drove  off. 

When  they  were  seated  again,  under  the 
trees,  Phyllis  regarding  the  baby  with  rapt 
eyes,  John's  curiosity  suggested  a  question. 

"Phyllis,  please  tell  us  what  you  set 
Mark  to  talking  about.  We  tried  every- 
thing." 

"Why,  about  Peggy,  of  course,"  said 
Phyllis.  "Silly!  Couldn't  you  think  of 
that?" 

Mrs.  Farquharson  had  awaited  the  de- 
parture of  the  Holroyds,  and  now,  in  her 
best  black  silk,  came  out  to  see  the  baby, 
and  remained  to  chat  for  a  few  minutes. 
Her  great  news  was  that  the  first-floor 
front  was  in  stocks  again  —  with  a  prospect 
of  seeing  better  days. 

"And  how  is  Mr.  Rowlandson?"  asked 
Phyllis. 

221 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Odder  than-  ever,"  replied  Mrs.  Far- 
quharson.  "He  is  getting  a  little  childish, 
I  think.  The  other  night  he  told  me  the 
greatest  rigmarole  about  some  collector  or 
other  in  Birmingham.  He  collected  weapons, 
of  all  things!  He  had  Mr.  Rowlandson 
buy  him  swords,  and  daggers,  and  spears, 
and  even  bows  and  arrows  from  America, 
until  his  house  fairly  rattled  with  them. 
Finally,  says  Mr.  Rowlandson,  he  got  him 
the  stone  that  David  flung  at  Goliath,  and 
the  jawbone  that  Samson  smote  the  Philis- 
tines with.  'Now,'  says  he,  'I  am  looking 
for  the  club  that  Cain  slew  Abel  with,  and 
then  he  will  be  complete.'  Did  ever  you 
hear  such  a  farrago?  And  his  eyes  twinkling 
all  the  time  as  though  he  was  as  sensible  as 
ever  could  be!  Yesterday  I  told  him  I  was 
coming  down  here  to  take  tea  with  Mrs. 
Burbage.  'With Mrs.  Burbage!'  says  he. 
'  Well,  what  next? '  'Now,  heed  my  words,' 
222 


OLD  VALENTINES 

says  I.  'That  woman  is  not  as  black  as 
she's  been  painted/  And  then  he  laughs. 
Childish,  I  say.  But  he's  terrible  down  on 
you,  Mr.  Landless,  because  the  baby's  a 
boy.  '  Mr.  Landless  has  disappointed  me,' 
says  he.  'He  knows  her  name  should  be 
Valentine.'  'But,  Mrs.  Landless  wanted 
a  boy,'  says  I,  'to  call  him  Peter';  as  she 
has,  bless  his  darling  little  heart,  that 
knows  his  old  Farquharson!  'Well,'  says 
he,  'Mr.  Landless  put  her  up  to  it.' ' 

When  she  had  returned  to  Burbage,  John 
and  Sir  Peter  began  work  on  the  proofs  of 
"Recollections  of  an  Engineer."  The  pub- 
lishers had  wished  to  call  it  "Recollections 
of  a  Great  Engineer."  Sir  Peter  told  them 
quietly  there  would  be  no  recollections  if 
they  insisted  on  the  word. 

The  story  of  the  Natal  bridge  would 
have  been  the  making  of  this  twelfth  chap- 
ter. But  the  Natal  story  has  a  chapter 
223 


OLD  VALENTINES 

of  its  own  in  the  "Recollections"  (chapter 
xxn — p.  227),  and  as  the  copyright  re- 
strictions are  in  force  you  will  have  to  look 
for  it  there.  Mr.  Rowlandson  has  the 
book  for  sale —  if  you  don't  find  it  else- 
where. 

The  work  on  the  proofs  was  interrupted 
when  the  baby  insisted  on  having  the  red 
rose  from  Sir  Peter's  buttonhole.  Sir  Peter 
cut  the  thorns  from  its  stem  before  he  gave 
it  into  the  tiny  fingers. 

Burbage  and  Farquharson  stood  by 
the  garden-gate,  looking  in.  The  golden 
glow  of  late  afternoon  was  over  all.  The 
roses  nodded  their  heavy  heads  all  about 
them.  The  gentle  murmur  of  the  flowing 
river,  lapping  the  old  stairs  at  the  end  of 
the  garden,  could  be  faintly  heard. 

Sir  Peter  cut  the  thorns  from  the  rose, 
and  gave  it  to  the  baby,  leaning  forward  in 
its  young  mother's  arms. 
224 


SIR   PETER   GAVE    IT   INTO   THE   TINY   FINGERS 


OLD  VALENTINES 

"Isn't  it  a  pretty  sight?"  whispered 
Burbage. 

"The  prettiest  sight  that  ever  was  in  the 
world,"  said  Farquharson,  fumbling  for  her 
handkerchief. 


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